A Scandal of No Importance
by amalcolm1
Summary: In the fall of 1897, Holmes receives a letter calling him to Paris to an old friend. And former lover. Expecting to help this person, he is instead forced to reveal his true feelings for Watson, and perhaps receive a little help of his own along the way.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is part one of four (or five) and in no way connected to my other Holmes story "Confessions of the Master," of which this will not be nearly as long. Rating for descriptions of M/M sex. Enjoy and review!_

"**A Scandal of No Importance"**

I was right, of course. Some may think me presumptuous or boastful to state this first and above all else that happened in the fall of '97, but the fact remains that I was correct in my assumptions from the day the letter arrived. It is my business to deal with facts-that is to say, to take the accusations and suppositions and to then turn them into workable facts. It is the skill of a logician, a skill rare enough in its own right, but to successfully employ such a skill in a useful occupation is unprecedented. Somehow, I managed this Herculean feat, and to some success, I may say.

However, in the course of any career, whether great or insignificant, one is bound to land themselves is some difficulty. Difficulty, that is, in a man's professional life. And if he is especially unlucky, he may land himself in the worst sort of difficulty known to human-kind: personal difficulty. The kind that prevents one from carrying on any semblance of normalcy; going about the typical routines, even when one is admittedly atypical in said routine. It begins to gnaw at one's mind, controlling their thoughts, preventing serious examinations of life. In short, it takes over one's very soul.

There is this word that is created for it: love. How many hours I have spent detaching my mind from the Hellish glow of our own sitting room fire, curled in the warm wicker, the shag smoke seeping into my every orifice, thinking. Analysing. Dissecting. But never could I arrive as a satisfactory conclusion. Except this. The affectation I had acquired had no cure. I continued to suffer in silence, hoping only that I could change the very nature I had seemingly been cursed with.

I knew of course, long before the letter arrived, that never could I breathe a word of these unfortunate feelings to the one they were directed at. Coincidentally, (a word I rarely use because most incidents of coincidence are easily explained), the doctor and I had once discussed such feelings two years previous-in the spring of '95, during a time when the results of a trial at Old Bailey were on the lips of everyone behind closed doors. It was a conversation I recall as one of the most painful of all my years.

I remember it to be a leisurely morning in late spring. There was nothing pressing in either or our lives, as I had been without a case for some two weeks, and Watson had seen fit to shadow me wordlessly for the same period of time. Never questioning or commenting, always presenting himself with a silent loyal decorum. I knew he was suspicious, however. He may not have learned the trick of logic as completely or as happily as I had hoped his assistance would allow him to, but he had certainly his own gifts that were to be prized. One of which was the rare ability to read my moods, and to make himself more or less available as I needed him.

In these recent years, I fear my need of him had only increased. It _could _only increase.

On that particular morning, I was sprawled lacksidaisically on our settee with a few remaining bits of the early edition of the _Times. _The paper, with a few allowances-the agony column, for example, had usually no interest for me, for their was little sense in wasting valuable space in one's brain with information he is bound never to need to know. What are football scores, Her Majesty's guest lists or even the endless disputes of Parliament to the logician? But I admit, on that particular morning, I had a specific reason to acquaint myself with the headlines.

Watson was still about his breakfast. Over the years, I had on many occasions familiarised myself with every available facet of information on his habits, and irregular as they were, they were far more conventional than my own. He would rise late, ordinarily later then myself, especially on the occasions I dispensed with the dreaded ritual of dreaming and sleep all together. He would take his leisure about his toilet, but he usually appeared downstairs completely immaculate-washed, shaved and dressed with military tidiness, while I myself only bothered to change out of my dressing gown if there was a specific purpose in doing so.

Our kind and considerate landlady, Mrs. Hudson, always prepared a considerable breakfast tray, plentiful for two men (given Watson's more than healthy appetite) and given that I myself rarely took with morning nourishment other than two or three pipes, a cigarette or so and the occasional cup of coffee. Watson was allowed as much or more than he could possibly want.

He was a veracious eater. This surprised me when first we met for he was not ferocious by nature. If anything, the complete reverse. Idle, when allowed, more than willing to squander away an afternoon dozing in front of the fire or reading a common book. I soon surmised that his manner in respect to how he ate was a direct result of his time in the Army. One has no difficulty inferring that when one is faced with possible death at any hour of the day, one must learn un-gentlemanly eating habits. There is certainly no time for leisurely luncheons.

He sat the morning in question scrapping viciously at the china with his knife and fork until every speck of rasher, egg and toast had gone. Only then did he sigh, cross his legs and straighten the second edition of the _Times_. I said nothing, but listened completely with my entire being.

The paper crinkled as he adjusted it. He read the front page first and then usually the football and rugby scores. He sipped from his coffee cup several times, each time returning to the saucer with a loud tinkling sound.

And then, for nearly one entire minute, silence. A brief snort. "Well…" he mumbled.

"Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"Something of interest?"

"Oh, well…not to you, I should think."

"Now, now…should you really be so hasty?"

He cleared his throat, making me smile in spite of myself. He will be remembered, if for no other reason, as the most perfect gentleman I shall have ever known. I waited in silence for him to continue.

"You are aware of the trial at Old Bailey?"

I had a sudden image of Oscar in a lavender suit and stockings, a distraught expression that one such as he should never wear, even if the Heavens threatened to fall and crush him. Two masked executioners led him away into a dark hole completely devoid of light. His head fell forward with tears in his eyes. He was defeated.

I shook my head in surprise, I must confess, for I was not usually considered a fanciful man. So much astonished me of late concerning my self, however, that this slip was only another of those little idiosyncrasies I hardly understood but apparently possessed.

"I seem to have heard something of a celebratory trial…the details escape me, however." I waved it off.

That was, of course, an outright lie, however necessary. It felt odd to do such a thing to him, in such an obvious way. It was something I swore to myself never to do again after Reichenbach. He deserved so much better from me…

"It's the playwright chap, Holmes. Oscar Wilde. He's been sentenced to two years hard labour."

I swallowed deeply, sitting up straighter. "Yes, really…what for?"

"Gross indecency." He cleared his throat.

Everyone with eyes to see in the whole of the city knew what those words meant. His entourage of rent boys and royalty were a constant site-the poor and the rich pink-faced darlings that clung to him like fluttering cherubs.

"_You're the very definition of discretion, my dear Sherlock," said Oscar to me before kissing me hard upon the mouth. It tasted of the brandy. I found it more than a little difficult to remain standing when he was looking at me so. As if he wished to devour me-body and soul. "It must be so lonely for you…"His words stung at my ear. "Come into the light…come…with me…"_

Watson was going on. "It's a shame really. He was brilliant. Everyone thought so. Of course, you know that. I nearly forgot we went together. Surely, you remember. It was only six months ago, I think. 'The Importance of Being Earnest.' My God, how does one go about creating one witticism after another such as he did?"

_We had been to the Haymarket, the doctor and I, to see another example of Oscar's brilliance. When the final act was complete, we stood and clapped joyfully along with the packed house. The cheering was nearly deafening. He loved it; sucking it all in as if oxygen._

"_Bravo!"_

"_Brilliant, Brilliant!"_

"_Author!"_

"_Author!"_

_Watson looked at me, stunned. Or perhaps stunning. "I say, surely the man's a genius. Even you must agree, Holmes."_

_He knew that I hated the theatre. I had no desire to live a life other than my own, and to sit for hours on end examining a fictional world was beyond my threshold of tolerance. _

_Only for Oscar._

_And then he appeared, large and garish and sycophantic, radiating his charm and Irish nature over the common lot like a wave from his eyes or mouth. He was at least dressed in black, although his magenta buttonhole was visible from our top box. He dangled a cigarette and stood with a smug expression, lips parted slightly, nodding in response and encouragement. _

"_Good Lord, is he smoking?" Watson asked into my ear._

_I smiled at the doctor. I was sure that, of all the people there, the brilliance was for me, and only me._

"_Siete il nostro re, o quella grande__1__!" I called to him, although I am sure no one, save Watson heard. He dismissed it without a question. It is of no importance. He speaks no Italian._

"I remember of course," said I to Watson, who I am sure was starring in confusion at my sudden bouts of inattention.

"I cannot honestly remember when I enjoyed a play more…" he sighed. "I really do think it a shame." He opened the paper and I heard the sounds of a third cup of coffee being poured. To him, the matter was at an end. He had no reason to dwell on the fate of Oscar Wilde a moment longer.

"Do you really?" I asked after a silent moment.

"Hmm? Do I what?"

"Do you _really _think it a shame?"

The paper was dropped and the coffee cup was set down roughly. I listened as it wobbled off-balance dangerously before clicking into place. "I am going to suppose you have some deep-rooted, intrusive reason for asking such an odd question?"

"Curiosity, Watson, curiosity only." And of course it was curiosity. In as much as the guinea defined my desire to become a consulting detective.

"Is it now?" He was not convinced. "Well then, I _do _think it a shame. In fact, rarely do I state something so specific and mean the complete opposite."

I glanced over my shoulder. He was smiling, and his voice suggested banter. He was a most subtle gentleman. I myself was discreet and he subtle. I knew that flying to the sun was for more manageable than anything I may hope for in the recesses of my soul. Yet, still, I had to know how he felt. Generally, of course.

"So it is a shame, then," said I. "A shame for the public to never be treated to his genius again. A shame to Mr. Wilde, no doubt. _Shameful_, anyhow."

"Well, of course, his behaviour _was_ shameful, Holmes. To break a law is one thing, but to flaunt it…with no regrets, or even regards to one's family. You were aware he had a wife and children?"

Aware. Yes. I was indeed aware…

_The desk was magnificent. It was a French cylinder, done in Louis XV style made with the highest quality mahogany. The lid was carved with a female form surrounded by a garden of roses. To my trained eye, I could not help but think this creature looked like Oscar as a female. Cherubic angels of gold fluttered over the top bracket and intricate bronze flowers grew up the legs of the desk. It was nearly garish in design, however original and perfectly suited to this man._

_I thought briefly of Watson's small roll top, made of manly English oak, stationed in the corner of our room. They could be no more different._

_But it was what was on top of this desk that most interested me. Two photographs. One showed two lovely young subjects, a boy with a jubilant grin and flowing locks and his mother, who wore a slightly lesser grin and a thick bun. They were intimately cheek-to-cheek, wearing dark outfits in a sea of white. No one else appeared to exist in the world to them._

"_Constance and Cyril," said Oscar, coming silently up behind me. "Two rays of light in a vacuum of space. Well, three, actually." He pointed to a slightly more recent photograph, framed in exactly the same ornate silver. This one was the same boy, grown longer and with his curls, a golden brown, I imagined, cut far shorter. He stood with another boy, slightly younger and with dark hair flipped to the side. His face wore a clearly superior smirk and I would not have hesitated for a second as to his parentage. Both wore clad in matching sailor suits._

"_Vyvyan. Cyril's brother."_

"_They are angelic," said I, trying to not to be overwhelmed with guilt by the innocent martyrs. "The younger of them is far more his father's son. I should think that a career writing awaits him. Yet you clearly favour the elder. He is the more athletic of the brothers and the more ill-tempered. Vyvyan has clearly spent more of his young life ill a-bed."_

"_You are most impressive, my dear." Oscar starred into the faces of his sons. "Tell it to me."_

"_I see the same light in the younger boy's that is in your own. His mind thinks the same way. He has the faint scars of German measles and his musculature is far less developed than his brothers, which indicates sickliness, given they are only a year to year and a half apart and should be similarly along. The elder boy has the broad shoulders and large hands of a rugger. You favour him with two photos that he is clearly smiling in. He must worship you."_

"_They will grow up to despise me, I fear." _

"_Never! Your name will still be celebrated hundreds of years from now. Future generations of Wildes will toast to you in parties to come, owing their inherited geniuses to you." He was very close to me now. His scent swirled into my brain. His lips were surprisingly soft. _

"_Then we are equals, Sherlock," he said into my neck. "Among equals what we will do is a sin." His breath felt like it was burning the hairs of my body. "Are you willing to commit a sin with me?"_

_He grabbed me hard and my answer came out as a moan. "Yes…"_

_We surrendered to the sin…_

"Holmes? Holmes, what on Earth? Why the deuce are you so distracted today?"

I spun in my seat to see it was still the doctor before me, and no one else. I cleared my throat and my mind and perhaps even my body. Remembering it seemed nearly as real as it had once been. "Do you not think, Watson, that a law can be unjust?"

"Well"-

"Think for instance of slavery laws that existed for thousands of years and continue to exist in lesser civilised countries. There have been people unjustly convicted of every crime ranging from witchcraft to stealing to prevent starvation. Nearly every religion that exists today has at one point been banned and people have been hung for practicing."

"Alright, Holmes. After all, I am not a schoolboy. I needn't a lecture. Certainly I am aware that unjust laws have-and still do-exist." He was tense with curiosity now, I saw as he came to sit across from me in his chair. We had both lit our after-breakfast pipes, and in a matter of seconds, a halo of smoke encircled us. "I suppose the only real debate is whether the law Wilde broke, er, the motives behind this so called 'gross indecency' is unwarranted." He paused, sucking several times on his pipe before freezing mid-inhale as a realisation overtook his mind. His eyes, usually deep with altruism, hardened as they came into mine. "Do you, Holmes?"

"Do I?"

"Do you think laws of gross indecency…_sodomy_, that is, are unjust?"

I watched him as he spoke. He spoke softly, as if confused. But that word. That one word. He spoke that one with conviction and aggression.

And so I could do but the same. "Indeed, Watson. I think they are." I cocked my head slightly and felt my eyes widen. I must have looked quite unbalanced to the doctor.

He expected to have misunderstood. Certainly, there was no way a man such as I, a man who scorned the softer emotions, would take such a lenient stance on a crime. A _sin._ They were calling it homosexuality. Of course, he did not comprehend it all. He would never know the entire story. But he suspected more than I'd ever intended at the time.

He cleared his throat of nervous tension. "I'm quite unsure as to what to say. Never would I have suspected…well, perhaps 'never' is too definite a word. It would only seem natural to me that you would stand against such an…unlawful thing."

He said 'unlawful.' Not unnatural, not sinful. I could take unlawful. I had broken laws in the past. Watson had as well. But there was no need to remind him of that. "Whenever a man such as Wilde, an indelible credit to our race, whom many would call a genius, is punished because of a nature he has been cursed with due to no fault of his own…" I was leaning far forward, my voice filled with a passion I had not realised I possessed. I stopped.

"I…wasn't aware that you knew him so well," said Watson. And I knew in an instant that suspicion was not becoming of him. He rose rather quickly without looking at me, heading for the door, where at he paused. "You were speaking of Wilde, weren't you Holmes?"

The good doctor never does himself justice in regards to his own abilities.

1 You are our king, o great one!


	2. Chapter 2

I, of course, never answered that question. The months passed with the promise of new distractions in the form of new cases, and Watson was beside me as always. But there was a distance now that was nearly undetectable. Nearly. It manifested as only curious glance, a stopped sentence, a slight imbalance in action. As if the doctor was suspicious of my every drawn breath and desired to know where I was at all hours. I thought also that he seemed to have constantly something on his mind, for he was as distracted as ever I'd seen him, but never would he bring it up. It stayed buried away in the dark, forgotten, as I fear Oscar was.

The letter had come, addressed to me in a hand unfamiliar, but the postmark of Paris was an instant clue. I knew none there, save one, who might choose to write me. If my professional services were desired by the Parisian police, certainly a wire would be far more appropriate.

I held the letter for several minutes, standing alone in the centre of the sitting room, feeling the thickness of the envelope; its symmetry pressed against my chest. I even told myself I could smell his flowery scent against the paper.

It was utter, mindless rot, of course. A flight of fancy quite unlike me.

I knew that it was not from Oscar. He would not ask for me himself. We had not seen each other to speak of for nearly six years. I had seen him once since the arrest, at the Old Bailey, and it had been in the disguise of a clerk.

_The prosecutor, a stone-faced little man named Gill, was reading a poem of Lord Alfred Douglas. "Pray tell me, Mr. Wilde, what is the 'love that dare not speak its name'?"_

_Oscar hesitated, breathing noisily for several seconds. His eyes roamed around the room at all the vile serpents that looked down at him and hissed, ready to pounce. But then he spoke:_

'_"The love that dare not speak its name" in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as the "Love that dare not speak its name," and on account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so the world does not understand. The world mocks it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it."'_

_He was brilliant, perfection as he spoke those words. The crowd was to its feet, just as they had been at the Haymarket when Watson and I had witnessed his genius first hand. But this time it was ever so different._

_"Sinner!"_

"_Shame, shame!"_

"_Bugger!"_

_Some clapped, but it all ceased rapidly as the judge endeavoured to regain control of his courtroom. "Bravo..." I called, or rather the clerk did, disguised amongst the rabble of the gawkers. He could not hear the support though, for the taunts far silenced us. I was shoved numerous times as the defendant was led out. Some pushed to get closer to him, so that they could yell their scoffs in his face. He was spit on, nearly jostled off his feet. And I could only stand helpless and watch his humiliation. _

_A petit young fellow appeared beside me. He was clean-shaven and possessed a head of dark curls. The corners of his dark impassioned eyes glistened slightly as Oscar came into sight. But on his face, he wore only a smile. Carefully and jovially, as if greeting a friend on any street corner, he lifted his hat as our man passed. He said not a word._

_Oscar turned to us as he did. His ignominy lifted momentarily and his eyes regained their superiority and dignity. "My dears, good-bye," said he, nearly in a whisper. No one could have heard him save this man and myself. We watched him until he was gone._

_The fellow next to me returned his hat to his head and pushed his way through the crowd. Later, I would learn who this man was. Robert Ross._

_There were many men in Oscar's life, and the vast majority I am sorry to say were barely old enough for such a title. He preferred the young and beautiful, whatever the class so that he might fulfil his desire of the ancient Greek master/pupil and enjoy the gifts of beauty of the young, and share the wisdom of the elder. I think I can safely conjecture that for whatever reason, I was the only man befitting his age and station that he had ever had. And whatever I may like to imagine in the more foolish, darker regions of my mind, I knew that there were only two that were really close to his heart. I found it instantly ironic just how opposite these two were. Fire and ice. Black and white. Perhaps even more sinister._

_I knew of Lord Alfred Douglas through my own biographies of notable persons, but at the time of my meeting Oscar, he was only an undergraduate of Oxford, and a snobbish and rich play-boy which is hardly startling news for a boy of that class. His father, however, was the Marquess of Queensbury and any reputation that he had acquired I was certain was well-earned. As I discovered one day in the coldest November I had recalled, in the year of '94._

_I received a telegram calling me to the Thackeray club the following day on an urgent matter of the utmost discretion. The paper and ink quality were of such a fine nature that at first I made the assumption that some lackey must have written the note, for surely none that had the backround of Marquess could be so unforgiving to both grammar and spelling. It was a completely fallacious error that I cursed myself for making as soon as I realised it. One must never assume. And this man, whatever else he may be, was as ignorant a man as I ever would meet._

_I sent word of my acceptance, out of curiosity if nothing else, and the next day arrived at three in the afternoon at the steps of the club amidst a freezing downpour of the season. Giving my name at the door, I was instantly guided through room after room of middle-aged men drinking hock and seltzer, then past a rather large library and a narrow stairwell into a small, windowless room of little light._

_The Marquess stood beside the only furniture that occupied the room-an old deal table and single chair. He was not a tall man, but broad and possessing a heavy neck and shoulders. In his hand was clenched a riding crop, and I could tell instantly from the marks on his hand that he was in the habit of carrying this weapon frequently. He had the twitch of arm and impatience of eye that suggested he had used it on more than one occasion. His face was contorted into a superior sneer, and he took no pains in sizing me up with two flat, colourless eyes. I knew him then to be the worst of his class. _

_In the course of my career, I can recall several villains that I have had the disservice of dealing with, and while I can recall instant judgments of dislike on several of these characters, not since the late Professor Moriarty can I recall ever feeling so much abhorrence for an individual so quickly. I would usually try and reserve judgment until after more data had been gathered and save said personal opinions as irrelevant. How I felt toward a client was not pertinent in solving a case. But I admit, with the Marquess of Queensbury, I felt an instant disgust boil within the pit of my stomach. He was a vile creature._

_The second his eyes fell on my person, he dismissed the page with an indifferent wave. "You are Holmes." He said. It was rather hard to discern whether this was a statement of fact or a question. Yet I doubted he asked many questions._

"_And you are the Marques of Queensbury. I see you have little need for formalities, so you will pardon me if I get straight to the point of why you have sent for me."_

"_You are a detective, are you not?" He remained standing and did not offer me to sit or drink with him. My distaste continued to grow._

"_I am a _private _consulting detective, sir. I am not affiliated with the police in any way, save as an authority."_

"_Hm! Are you indeed? I suppose there is some little difference, but you needn't bother to explain. The reason I have summoned you (yes, summoned, as I were a peasant of the courts) here is that I require your services. I have heard you are to be relied upon for your discretion, and unlike most of Scotland Yard, you may actually have something of a brain."_

_As I stood there being insulted by a fool, watching the riding crop repeatedly slap down against his thigh threateningly, it occurred to me how much I'd come to rely on Watson. My temper is far from as even as his and I relied upon his steady nerve to deal with such obvious imbeciles as this. Oh, that I could have him beside me at that moment! But of course, wishing it did not make it so. It half occurred to me to walk out without another word being spoken, but I did not have the chance. As I was carefully depositing my disgust into the eyes of my opponent, preparing to vocalise my revulsion, there was an unexpected bang and the door was thrown open. A young fellow, not more than five and twenty and with the visage capable of matching that of any Heaven could offer came charging in. I knew immediately who this must be. I had pretended, as had many others, that Oscar had not at last chosen one over the rest of us. _

"_Father!" He shrieked unbecomingly. "I thought as much! What do you think you are doing to me!"_

_The crop slammed down hard enough against the table to nearly cause me to shudder. "Do not take that tone with _me, _boy! How dare you intrude upon me in this manner?"_

_I thought to tactfully make my escape as this occurred, but I could not move for my curiosity. The famed Lord Alfred Douglas was in front of me at last. The only one to steal and keep Oscar's heart._

"_How dare, _I, _father? I? After what you are trying to do to me?" _

"_You, sir, are an abomination!" Screamed the Marquess as he pointed a squat finger at his child. "And certainly no son of mine! I will do whatever I must-and can- to bring about Wilde's downfall. And if I must do the same to you as well, so be it."_

"_You are absurd, Father!"_

"_I will not have you ending up as Francis__1__ did! I will not have another disgusting bugger in this family!"_

_I am sure that, at that moment, I was very sorry indeed that I had come alone. I had never, nor have been since, so uncomfortable in my solitude. To stand there, knowing what I did, knowing the secrets not just of Bosie and Oscar, but of myself…it was as near to the end that I ever wanted. _

_The word had some effect on the boy. Although it was certainly not the first time he had heard the title, I am sure, he no doubt was surprised his father would say such a thing in front of another. His eyes, a clear and dangerous blue, met mine for a second before returning to his parents'. "You can call me all the names you wish, Father," said he. "But nothing will change the fact that I love Oscar. And he loves me. He will do _anything _for me. And if you think you are going to stop that, you are wrong."_

"_Don't you dare sass me, you insolent brat!" Queensbury's face was quite red at that moment. His jowl hung into his necktie as his face was set into a deeply wrinkled frown. "You have no means of support without me! And as for Wilde, I will take ever penny of his before this is over! Do you hear me, Bosie?"_

_But Lord Alfred had ceased to listen to him. Rather, he had turned to me. He was a beautiful thing in his skin, I will not deny that. The blue eyes, the blond curls and fair skin. But I did not take much of an eye to see the brash ugliness that worried me. How could Oscar not see it? He was so completely dangerous. "And you. Who are you?"_

"_I…do not see who I am as important to you." I said to him. I could not give my name. Oscar would never betray me, but this boy was the last person I wished to know me._

"_Well, whoever you are…if you aid this man, this…creature against me, I will see to it that you pay. Do not ally yourself with him, I warn you."_

"_Get out!" Queensbury roared at the top of his voice. "Get out now, Bosie, before I have you thrown out on your perverted buggering end!"_

"_I appreciate the advice, Lord Alfred," said I, nearly reaching to take his hand. "I assure you I will keep it in mind."_

_As the riding crop came just inches from his face, Bosie ducked out then without another word to either of us. His presence, however, had had a profound affect on both Queensbury and myself._

"_Forgive me for that," said the man after a moment to regain his composure. "But you see now why I am in need of a detective? Bosie is…a sick pervert. A bugger. Yet despite it all, he is my son. And I know that it is not his fault. It is that Oscar Wilde's."_

_I could not look at him then for fear of laughing. "Is it really?" I forced my voice to sound completely innocent._

"_Yes…surely you must know? He is the biggest bugger of them all. There is probably none he hasn't taken under his wing of the lower classes. He muses over them, gives them presents and charms them with his art…and then he buggers them…"_

"_Please, sir," said I, holding up a hand, pretending to be shocked, although in truth I was far more amused at his description than anything. "Must we keep using that word?"_

_Queensbury nodded and for the first time, his face betrayed some little respect for me. "I can see that you are a man such as I. A traditionalist who believes in the same conservative ways of our forefathers." (Oh, the joy of the irony was such that even Oscar could not handle it!). "And I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that all I want out of this is my son back. I want him away from those that would corrupt him. In short, what I want of you is to follow him. And Wilde. I need proof to bring a case against him, and as of now I have none. I can get the…creatures he uses when he not using my son, but their word means nothing. They are rabble. I need the word of a gentleman. A man whose name and honour mean something, as I am sure yours does."_

"_You wish that I would get evidence of your son and Wilde's relationship…and then testify against them?" _

"_It is the only way to stop them!" He cried passionately._

_In all my years working against and occasionally for the foulest forms of life, I have come up against many that I consider to be the worst of human kind. Yet even they seemed to have some sort of redemption. Moriarty, for example, was the most dangerous of criminal minds. But one could certainly not disregard his genius. And Baron Gruner, commonly known as the Austrian murderer, was a foul and loathsome creature, but one who possessed such charm that the fair sex were able to overlook all his many, many faults. The true assessment of a criminal must be judged in both the qualities that lure them to evil as well as the ones the make that evil attractive to others. And with Queensbury, for the first time, I could find nothing. No redeeming quality, no saving grace save the good fortune of having been born well. He was completely lost to all. I knew that his remaining years would be spent realising that.__2_

_I shook my head sadly; sad for his situation. "I am afraid, sir, that I cannot help you." And I turned on my heel to leave._

_He was surprised. I could sense it. "What do you mean? Do you not realise how important this is…how much _money _I could pay you?"_

_I turned back around. "Money means very little to me. I work for two things: the intellectual stimulation-of which this offers me very little, and the betterment of society. And you most assuredly offer none of that."_

_He turned the foul colour of deep red again, and I myself felt that it was time to depart. I no longer desired to share the same space as this creature. I returned my hat to my head and tipped it ever so slightly with a bit of a smile I was unable to resist. "Good-day, your lord-ship."_

_The day did not seem quite as bone-chilling cold as it had just an hour previous. The wind had died somewhat, and above the tops of the roofs I could see a golden tint to the cloud indicating that the sun was trying to warm the miserable winter's day. Although it was quite a walk, I decided to save myself a shilling's fare and take it upon my own steam back to Baker Street. I felt warm inside, although I should not have. I should have felt contaminated._

_If Lord Alfred Douglas was the only one to ever completely capture Oscar's heart, it was Robert Ross who never completely gave up on the man. It is clear to me now that Douglas caused Oscar's downfall as much as his father, but were it not for Ross, Oscar would have never made it as long as he did. _

_As with Douglas, I met Ross in person only once to speak of, and that occurred shortly after Oscar's conviction. I was in dire need of news. Not the kind that the newspapers were printing for that said nothing save how famous he was, how important the trial was, how unspeakable the entire affair had been, and so on. I ask no one. People talked off course, but it was suspicious to even have a curiosity of the subject, and the rumours that circulated were not what I desired either. As always, I desired the truth. And I knew of one that was sure to know all._

_We met several months after Oscar's sentencing at a pub of his choosing called 'The Blue Donkey'. He led me to a private table in the back of the room, a table almost hidden under the large head of a male boar. Rather than arousing suspicion by holding a whispered conversation, he had the good sense to pick a bustling, crowded room filled with men half-drunk, calling loudly, laughing and singing. We would be no more noticed than the billiards table or the photograph of Her Majesty on the wall. _

_Wordlessly, he motioned me to sit while he procured two pints of ale. He chatted pleasantly with the publican for a moment, a heavily mutton-chopped man with the cough and voice of one who spent years in the coal mines of America, only to inherit some money and decide to come to Europe in his later years, probably with the hope of retaining what was left of his health. Although I could not hear what was being said, I was clear enough that Ross was both charming and polite, but more than eager to escape. His nerves betrayed him as he repeatedly strummed the counter with three fingers and switched his balance from foot to foot._

_At last he was able to nod with a tense grin and return to where I waited. "My apologies," said he as he set our drinks down. "The barkeep, Fischer, has a talent for talk."_

"_But not apparently for brevity."_

_Ross smiled, only slightly uncertainly. "Indeed. But we cannot all have your gifts, Mr. Holmes."_

"_Ah! You know me, then?"_

"_Only by reputation."_

"Only _by reputation?"_

_He paused to drink, considering his response. I knew he would arrive at the correct conclusion. It was of no use to try and conceal anything from me. "Oscar has spoken of you." I nodded tersely, but he rushed to continue. "Whatever you may think, sir, I want you to know that I am as discreet as you. I would never"-_

"_I realise that, Mr. Ross. I could tell from the moment I first saw you."_

"_Today?" He asked confused._

"_No, at Old Bailey. You were standing next to me as they led Oscar out."_

_He strained in his memory to try and recall it, and obviously was able to, for he smiled brightly. "Yes, I remember…"_

"_Mr. Ross," I began, not exactly sure what I wanted from him, but none-the-less wanting him to realise that I would do anything I could. Anything that would not endanger my name. In my reckless past, I had already risked enough. "You will think me a coward, and I will not blame you if you do, but I want to help. Truly, I do. However, to go there and see him…anyone, any _male _that is who goes to see him, even under the most innocent of circumstances will be believed to be involved illicitly with Oscar."_

"_Yes, I know." He looked unconcerned. "And I would advice you not to risk it. You are known. Not just here in London, but all over. I, however, outside of my own family in Canada and a select few at Oxford, will never be considered worthy of gossip."_

_He lit a cigarette, and offered one to me, which I took, although it was some disgustingly poor blend that could not allow the lungs to celebrate over. He breathed it in deeply, studying me as he did. "You love him as well, do you not?"_

"_What?"_

_He chuckled at my surprise. "Come now, Mr. Holmes. I've known Oscar only a decade or so, but it is an infinity when you compare it to how long others have. Take Bosie for example…"_

"_I warned Oscar how dangerous that wretch was."_

"_You and everyone he knew, Mr. Holmes. He is so infatuated by him…oh, how I tried to tell him how reckless he was being!" Ross sighed emotionally and gave a shrug. "He doesn't listen. Not to me, not to anyone. Only to Bosie."_

"_You obviously have much to deal with, Mr. Ross. I commend you."_

"_Do you mean with Oscar or with Bosie?"_

"_The both of them."_

"_Bosie can be…quite cruel." He dropped his gaze as he reached for a second cigarette. "It is hard to blame him. You have seen his father, of course, so you must know. Anyone with that for a parent could not help but turn out the way he did…yet, it is difficult. I do not mean to complain, so you will have to excuse me. But it is clear to everyone-everyone except Oscar-that Bosie clearly does not have his best interests at heart. It is just as much his fault as Queensbury that he is in gaol now."_

"_Now, now, Mr. Ross. Be fair. It was a fool of a thing that he did. The most illogical act I can ever recall from such an otherwise brilliant man! Why, oh why would he bring that libel case against Queensbury?"_

_I could tell immediately from Ross's reaction that it was a futile question that had passed through his mind thousands of times. He could only shrug with a funny little smile, as if it were all too bizarre for comprehension. "If you can force that out of him, Mr. Holmes, you are more resilient than I. And really, what is the point of it all? I rather prefer to think on what will happen after he is released."_

_He was a far more optimistic creature than I. The chances of Oscar even surviving the labour were none that a betting man would consider, and even if he did survive, in what state of health would it be? Leaden as it made my heart, I knew that the Oscar Wilde of the past was gone from our lives forever. But I could not say that to Ross. He knew it already, deep down. "He can certainly not return to London. Or anywhere in Britain, I would think. Will you set up somewhere for him?"_

"_I would like him to go to Italy, if possible. If not, than Paris, I imagine."_

"_I will send you a cheque, when appropriate."_

_His face hardened, and I knew then for certain that I had been correct in my assessment of his character. "I am not asking for handouts, Mr. Holmes."_

"_You will need them, nonetheless. I am not talking about thousands of pounds, my dear boy. Despite what you may hear, I am far from wealthy."_

_He looked at me then in a way that I should have expected would make me uncomfortable were it a lesser man, but somehow did not. It was respect, but there was more to it than that. I imagined that it was much the same look that forced Oscar out of the darkness of his soul six years previous. Ross, however, had the good grace to control it. "You are a decent man, Mr. Holmes. I can see why Oscar is so fascinated with you."_

_It was certainly not my decency that he found fascinating_

_Ross and I spoke for well over an hour, but I can recall nothing else specific that we spoke of. He was charming, but not overtly, and very polite. I left with the utmost respect and reverence for him. As we stood outside The Blue Donkey offering our hands to each other, I said, "Will you promise me something?"_

"_Of course, sir."_

"_If you…or Oscar were ever to have need of me. For any reason. Will you write and ask for me?"_

_He hesitated. "You would risk that?"_

"_I…owe as much. No, that is not the reason. I want to do as much."_

_Releasing my hand, he nodded adamantly. "I believe you do. Good-day, Mr. Holmes." He tipped his hat much as he had done for Oscar, the same bright smile of innocence upon his face, although I knew him to be anything but. Yet there was something of a simple and pure aura that surrounded him. He turned and slowly disappeared into the black snow. _

"_Good-day, Mr. Ross." I said after him, although I was quite certain he was out of earshot. He walked carefully and straight, swinging his arms slightly and looking about him, as if he were carefree student on holiday without a care in the world. _

_We were not to see each other again._

It was in a brisk fall, late in November of '97 when the letter came to me. It had been over two years since the trail. Oscar was alive, I knew that much; he had survived his prison term, but that was all I knew. It was probably for the best that I knew no more. Yet somehow I always expected that someday, something would arrive. I would not conclude my life without hearing from him again.

I was right, of course.

The letter read:

_My dear Mr. Holmes:_

_It has been two years since last we spoke, but it is a conversation-and you a person-that I am not likely to forget. I promised you that day in (?) that if Oscar were ever to have need of you, I would write and tell you so. I fear such a time has fallen upon him. Although it has been months since Oscar has returned to his life, his health is poor and he refuses to do much to change his situation. I am unsure of anything else I can do. There is no need for us to meet, and below I enclose the address in Paris where you may find him._

_I remain yours sincerely,_

_Robert Ross_

The letter gave an address of a M. Melmouth in the Hotel Marsollier, 13 rue Marsollier, an address I knew to be in the heart of the city. It could only have been worse than I thought, if he was using an alias. I read the letter thrice more before closing it, and storing it in my pocket. I felt suddenly thrust back into a world that I both feared and rejoiced in. The next several days would be trying, of this I was certain.

I remained standing still as a statue in the centre of the room, lost in my own reverie, when Watson came in. He was carrying the mail that I had already abandoned in seeing that letter, but he ceased flipping through it when he saw me.

"Why, Holmes! What on Earth are you doing?"

Although I saw him enter in all his glory, it still did not register. My heart plunged into my throat and I was forced to give ever effect of regaining my composure. "Nothing," I told him. "Nothing at all."

"Are you feeling alright, old boy?"

"Perfectly acceptable for the circumstances."

He studied me with narrowed eyes at that. As I have already mentioned, Watson is the only soul I have ever been graced to know that has the ability to read my moods. How he came upon such a talent, I cannot say, but it is more than just the fact that we have shared rooms for the better part of sixteen years. There is something akin to that word again, that word that tries men's souls…

"Are you sure you're not ill? You do look a bit off-colour to me."

"What are you basing that on? Logic? Intuition? Romanticism?" I sneered forcibly so that he would be put off, as I tried to force to logic back into me.

But he was not so easily diverted from me in these days, as it were when first we met, and his honour asserted that he should not meddle with my personal affairs. "Certainly not romanticism. Phy-scian, I should think, and Holmes you look as though you have a fever."

To my horror, he came straight at me with his hand outstretched. I turned completely rigid and threw myself against the side-board and away from him hard enough to feel it in my spine. "God, Watson! What do you think you are doing?"

"Seeing if you are feverous. What's come over you?"

"I can assure you I am not, doctor. Kindly restrain yourself."

He did stop, but looked equal parts concerned and hurt. Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, he grimaced. "You act as though I were going to hurt you."

"Don't speak rubbish." Oh, if only he could know how very opposite of hurt his touch would be.

"Are you certain you're well?" He was studying me in that simplistic, yet torturous way of his. The wet eyes would roam over me; the lips would purse and twitch. His entire body tensed. I could feel his muscle quiver through bronzed skin with my very mind.

"Don't look at me so." I whispered and turned away. His very presence in proximity was enough to arouse every atom of my being. He was close enough that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, causing me to pulse.

"There _is_ something wrong, isn't there? Holmes? Tell me, won't you?" His voice pitched higher with worry. "Please…"

I could not have possibly turned to him then. If I had seen him in that second, I am certain I would have spilled every secret locked safely away in both my heart and mind. "There is nothing I can tell you, my dear doctor. Other than that I have been called to Paris to-morrow. I cannot say with much certainty how long I will be away, but I shouldn't think more than a few days. However, I will be completely inaccessible for the while."

"Paris? What on Earth is in Paris? A case?"

"Of a matter."

"Then why don't I"-

"My train will depart quite early," I interrupted. "I shan't join you for supper. If you will excuse me, I have some small matters to settle before I depart." I turned to him for a darting second so that I may have a picture to keep locked away in my mind for the next several days. "Fare-well, my friend." Leaving him in his mist of confusion, I entered my chamber and closed the door softly behind me. It was dark as a tomb inside, but I didn't bother about the light. Sometimes one prefers the dark.

1 Francis, Lord Drumlanrig, was Bosie's elder brother. He was the lover of Sir Rosebury, prime minister at the time of Wilde's trial. Queensbury probably threatened to expose Rosebury if he did not back Wilde's prosecution. Francis committed suicide.

2 Perhaps Holmes is portrayed as a bit too psychic and intuitive here, but I always found him, in the canon and elsewhere, to have been able to use his powers to tell not only where people have been, but where they will be. And he's right. Queensbury dies in 1899, having spent his last years alienating all of his children and going practically insane convinced that people are hounding him for what he did to Wilde. Can anyone say poetic justice?


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N: Thought I was never coming back to this, eh? Well, I've been rather busy with my other story "Confessions," but I had the sudden urge to get the next part of this up. I hope you enjoy, and as, always, feed the ego…I mean, review ;)_**

**Paris- November of 1897**

If he had not been Irish, he would most certainly have been Parisian. Paris was the perfect city for Oscar. The old Oscar, that is, for I had every reason to anticipate great change in the man. Robert Ross had been very cordial in his letter, considering our very limited acquaintance, but openly insistent. I knew enough to realise he was not a man to beg, but it was clear enough that he was nearly at that point. _I am unsure of anything else I can do. _He had not said how exactly I may help, but if there was a chance I could be of use, I would make my appearance. "Nature teaches beasts to know their friends1," I once had read of the Master, and thought it of myself. Beasts. Is that what we were? Those among us would probably have said as much. The _inverts _were in league with the Beast. How I detested that word! _Invert…_

Watson had said that the real victims were Oscar's wife and children. And in as much as I could see that, I saw beyond the angels in their silver frames. I saw the dark shadows and abandoned warehouses. The dingy faced rent-boys with thin cloth caps pulled down over bleak eyes and dirt-smeared cheeks. I saw even the velvet-cloaked Lords as they sprinted from similar areas holding their toppers and sticks tightly and taking cabs so that no might recognise them. I saw them as victims as well. Victims of a disease that nature had seen fit to curse them with, and one that they were helpless to control. These were the victims of the night. Of panic and paranoia. There might be a 'Wilde' anywhere. London was both the only prison and the only salvation for them.

And as for myself, I felt as much as prisoner as Oscar no doubt had, only of a different kind.

Paris radiated in every way that London did not. The charming cafés, the gaiety of quant right-bank shops, and the overtly sociable residents chattering in French so rapidly I could hardly keep up. Even the Notre Dame de Paris spoke to the residents and holiday makers of a bright sun glowing through a million pieces of stained glass, promising redemption and sanctuary despite its gothic horrors. In London, it would have spoken only of fear and retribution. Even the weather promised of late autumn amiability, with winter perhaps a thousand years off. The winds were warm, the skies were bright and the air filled my nostrils with sinful smells. No coal-fogs forcing their way into one's throat, no death stench of the Thames, no soot blackening the buildings, residents and souls. As my cab passed the Louvre, where once I had been of some use to the local authorities2, I thought of Paris as a painting of Manet: the pleasantries of daily life, water, café's, picnicking and naked female breasts. London, to my mind, was more like Blake. Insane etchings of death and torture.3 One filled the body with cheer, the other with fear.

I hated it. The whole of Paris reeked poisonous. I would give my devotion to London any day over this.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

I had little difficulty in finding the place. The Hotel Marsollier4 was near the right bank, but brushed away like dirt under a rug into a section that appeared unaware that a new republic was occurring around them. The depression of two decades previous seemed to not have ended here. With its grey walls and sad, sagging demeanour, it seemed to me the sort of hovel that a poor man would take his whore, or the ignorant criminal might conduct his trade. He was here? How could he be here? My heart swelled with sympathy, but I forced all such emotions away. Oscar must not see pity on my face. He might revel in such things, but I would not.

I took my time about entering. In a wig, some rubber additions to the nose and chin and a less dignified suit of brown cotton, I had managed to give the impression of a farmer from the near provinces. In the city to take in the sites, perhaps, but certainly to give trouble to no one. My true identity was one that was known even here, and I had every reason to protect it. Leaning nonchalantly against the cool, crumbling stone, I stared across the remains of a cobblestone walkway infested with weeds and slowly smoked a cigarette, studying the Seine that was so very near. It was green and healthy, quite drinkable in fact, and still home to many fish, unlike the stench and rotted waters of London's river. But like our own Thames, it was the climax of the city, both the beginning and the end. If the capital were to fall, burn to the ground, become swept into the seven winds, the rivers would still be there for some future generation to re-build upon. Reliability was something I depended upon in my own life to stabilize my mind. Like the reliability of the river always being there, I could always rely on myself. On my own abilities and experiences. That was the difference between Oscar and I. He could not rely on himself. He had led himself to betrayal.

And Watson. Watson was the very definition of reliability.

But it would not do to think of him. Not now. I willed him out of my mind…or at least to the darker alcoves of the brain that one never acknowledges having. I kept him there all the hours of the day.

Inside the hotel, I tried to find some sort of solace, some saving-grace that might soothe my mind as to Oscar being here, but apart from the dim shadow of obscurity he needed, there were none. M. Melmoth was occupying the ground-floor room left, with a view of the Seine. The sun shined on the filth of the hallway, and I could still hear the clerk that had directed me clearing the heavy phlegm from his chest. I wondered briefly if he was aware he had not long to live. From the swelling and redness of his entire upper body, I would say his cancer was in the advanced stages. Watson would be proud that, at times, I did listen to his endless ramblings of information from the medical journals that he read and occasionally spoke of me to. Superior vena cava syndrome or something of the like. Perhaps the poor clerk could not afford treatment. Heavy feelings of pessimism clouded my mind. I reached a sloppily-painted teal coloured door. With a careful glance, to make sure I was still alone, I removed my disguise. I must face him as myself. Beyond that garish door lay the great martyr.

I could but hope that one day the world would see him as such.

"_Entrée_," a voice heavily indebted to Irish brogue called out when I knocked, and the door opened slowly with a heavy groan.

And then, eight years since we had met face-to-face, I found myself before him again. I had hoped for at least a second or two to gather data, to acclimate myself to the damage two years of hard labour had wrecked upon him. But there he stood before me, like some fallen deity, changed in every conceivable way, and my reaction leapt from my mouth before I could stop it.

"Good God!"

Of course, I felt a slight burning shame in the face and my lack of courtesy, however unintentional it was. But all I could imagine on the boat and train here was the face of Oscar at his prime, when first we had met. The thick, glossy mane, worn longer than any other gentleman would dare, like the alpha lion of the pride. The clear green eyes that radiated wit and wisdom. Teeth, slightly crooked, chin and nose a bit prominent, much like the ancient Greeks and Romans whose civilisation he so admired, and overall, far from the traditional handsomeness that many of the boys flocking about him possessed. However, he had been so instantly intriguing to me that I nearly felt mesmerised for the first time in my life. He pulsed with a secret agenda that was completely obvious. Never had I come in contact with another that was so infinitely easy to read. Every elegant movement of his body, every whisper he spoke to the boy on his arm reeked of bold indifference to the rules of society. I found myself for the first time fascinated with another being. Wanting only to know how such a creature of light could survive in the dark.

"Oh, do not go into all that," said Oscar, instantly thrusting me back into the present. "God though I may be, religion is such a dulsatory subject. But despite it…my dear boy, how delightful to see you."

_My dear boy. _The title was one I would allow only he to get away with.

"You should not be surprised that I'm here. You know I have an insatiable curiosity." My heart had ceased its sickening rate of pounding and was returning to normal. The initial shock was wearing off. He was a completely different man. His hair nearly sheared completely off, lines and heavy grey shadows mapping the recent past on his face, and the weight that had been starved off in prison was coming back with a vengeance. Most likely in the form of a liquid diet, I reasoned noticing several empty Courvoisierbottles scattered about the room, as well as a half-consumed bottle of cheap French champagne.

"Well, perhaps nothing you do should be surprising…providing you don't stray from your routine, which of course you would never do." He reached toward me shaking slightly, and I froze as his hand rested on my cheek. I felt like the hand of a poor labourer. "My dear Sherlock…how British you look!" His hand was tracing downward: my neck, my breast, my lapel. It stopped just north of my waistcoat pocket. "The English have an atrocious sense of fashion. One can hardly judge whether their sullen attire is because they are mourning a death or a marriage."

Of course, he was hardly one to speak of such things. His clothing was part of his message and movement. The Aestitics, who believed something of _l'art pour l'art. _A strange little group of others like Oscar, and in which I fit as well as square peg in a round hole. They supposedly saw beauty even in the ordinary object, and tried to recreate this beauty in all facets of their lives-including their manner of dress. As uninterested as I was in his hobbies, they had added to my strange appeal to understand a man who lived so opposite a life as I, and yet shared the deepest recesses of his soul with me.

"You should perhaps come in," said Oscar. _Why was I finding it so damnably hard to conduct myself in the now? Every one of my senses kept forcing me into the past, to a period of less than one week eight years ago that I should, in all good faith, try to erase. _"It really is a horrid looking hallway. One so beautiful as yourself should not try and glorify it by standing there."

"Lying is not an art that should be revived. You should leave the lies for the professionals. The law-makers." I stepped past him as he took my scent in. Heavy shag and hair tonic. To me, it was a common and hardly remarkable smell. It spoke volumes for how lonely he truly must have been.

The rooms consisted of a small sitting area leading into a bedroom and a private bath. That was all. It was completely over-decorated with the garishness that defined the man: flowers, both fake and gradually dying lilies and daisies stood in four different chipped vases. Peacock feathers were strewn about the table tops. A pink and yellow Chinese fan hung askew on the wall. Cheaply made and brightly dyed woven rugs covered nearly every inch of the threadbare carpeting. It was like _gilt-_ a sheen of gold over tarnished metal. The second-hand decorations could not hide the ripped beige wall-paper, infested with mildew from decades of heavy Parisian springs. I watched in strange fascination as a water beetle climbed across one of several dusty piles of books.

In typical fashion, he had surrounded himself with books. I walked slowly over to the thickest of these stacks, the one the insect was hastening to abandon and ran my still gloved finger over the bindings. _Swinburne_, _Housman_, _Pator_, _Rossetti_…nothing especially shocking for the man. The bottom of the pile consisted of old _Strand _magazines, some translated into French, and containing the dramatic romances of my career that my doctor so liked to enthral his readers with.

With a wave of his hand, and a gentle thrust to my shoulder, I was offered an overstuffed purple chair, easily the most comfortable of what was available, but I declined. Slowly, I lowered myself into an unstable wicker seat. Comfort was a luxury I would not afford myself at the moment. Alertness. All my reason. But not comfort. To be comfortable was to be distracted, unaware of one's surroundings. That was a path I had been down once before…

"Something to drink?"

"Have you anything besides cheap cognac? I detest gutter rot."

Oscar smiled. "I have not fallen so far from grace that I cannot still offer my guest a decent cup of tea. Or champagne, if you prefer." I motioned to that half-empty bottle, dripping with perspiration.

"No, no…only tea. Perhaps later we can toast to each other's…good fortunes. But for now, we shall have to create lies about what may be."

There was no kitchen area to the room, so the tea was prepared in a cast-iron kettle atop the fireplace. I sat mere inches from my host, watching and studying in silence. His short, delicate fingers manipulated the match, pressing it firmly against the brick until it hissed to life. He snatched a handful of newspaper, _Le Figaro_ and twisted it delicately before putting his fire to it. It caught instantly. In three minutes, there was howling and steam shot across the room.

"We are more alike than either of us would care to believe, Sherlock," said Oscar as he slowly and methodically wiped the newsprint from his hands with a rag. "At times, I see it in your choice of words. Although it is your choice of silences that are more telling."

"My silences…" said I, trying to not sound intrigued.

"Oh, yes. A silence frequently tells far more than even the most long-winded of speeches. I thought once to create a play with no words…only gestures and longing glances by the players…but it is so hard to write silences down on paper, as you know. But your silences are a discussion for later"-

"Why wait?"

"Because once I was told that patience is a virtue. And although I know little of patience, I know much of virtue. Yours in particular, my dear boy." He was smiling quite venomously now, and his knowledge of me, his leverage, was frustrating.

And I knew what he was attempting. I had seen it practiced many times before. His words-so clever, so perfect, were like a tonic that surrendered my mind to him with complete compliance. I can say only that when it came to Wilde, it must have been a weak will indeed that I possessed. He was moving closer to me, and the smell of the Courvoisier was on his mouth. It was a clever mouth, satiny smooth and with a knowledgeable tongue. It was that tongue that had forced my mind and body into strange actions I previously thought impossible of myself. He was a master. A singularly gifted genius.

But that was in the past. And I fear that is where it must stay. And so I put my hand to the mouth of M. Melmoth, stopping him, and stopping myself. "No, Oscar. You mustn't."

"Mustn't I?" He asked, somewhat jovially. I saw in an instant that he expected this reaction.

A realisation suddenly occurred to me, and one that should have some time ago. "You do not seem surprised that I am here. I was so overwhelmed…so shocked by you that I only now realise it."

He smiled broadly and gave me a slight chuckle. Taking my hand he raised me to my feet. "Come, my dear. This stuffy room is not the place for such a delicate discussion. You must walk with me."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The afternoon was fading to crimson around Paris. The breeze from the Seine was feeling more like November now that the sun was falling behind it. Oscar took my arm and led me away from the Marsollier toward the heart of the district. "It is nearly time for supper. To make up for your unannounced intrusion, you may treat."

It is difficult for one to surmise whether he was being facetious or not. We walked in relative peace, conjuring memories of similar expeditions with Watson. I would pretend to not be interested in such matters, preferring to be about my chemicals, but in the end, I would acquiesce. _A change of air will serve you well, Holmes, _he would say standing over me with my overcoat and stick. I would lead him through Regent's Park with his arm in mine, and neither of us would find it necessary to speak. We knew each other so well that words were not required to amuse the other. There was only the joy of his company and the study of his habits. The doctor walked with military pride, holding his head high and his chest out. His boots kept a perfect rhythm with the pavement and I noticed that his steady eyes roamed the area, seemingly studying every tree and rock. I assumed this to be a reaction to war, where he unconsciously kept a look-out for the enemy in hiding. If only he knew that it was at his very hip. My entire body would sweat on those occasions, whatever the weather.

"Your distraction is most charming," said Oscar into my ear. "Perhaps you would care to share? I am always interested in appealing flights of fancy."

"Not a flight of fancy at all, I am sorry to report," I lied. "In fact, I was noticing those boys over there." I pointed to a group of three, all younger than one and twenty and all prostitutes, clearly. They wore those infernal green carnations that marked them and leaned suggestively with legs slightly spread and hips jutted forward. They surrounded a small statue of Napoleon Bonaparte upon a reared horse at the entrance of a park opposite us. Even from ten paces away, I saw the recognition in their eyes. "Friends of yours?" I asked, making my voice more than a little ironic.

"All friends in need…at least for a few lonely hours. You would not judge them so harshly, my dear, if you knew their stories." He pointed at the tallest of the three, a rather plain looking dark-haired youth in a bottle-green jacket who wore a confident grin that did not match his tapping foot and slightly shaking hands. "His name is Marceau. At fifteen, his father tried to castrate him when he found him…in a compromising position with another boy. He has been on that corner ever since. And the beautiful blond with the full lips is called Amaury. His story is less dramatic. Merely an unfortunate victim of poverty trying to earn a little money to support his mother and sister. They believe him to be employed in a newspaper office, I believe."

"Then they are very naïve individuals. Where, prey, did they think him to be when he was in prison? And I find it hard to believe they could suppose him to be employed in a newspaper office knowing that he is illiterate. And as far as the other is concerned, he is suffering from syphilis. He is a danger to every man who would pick him up. Including you, my dear Oscar."

Oscar glanced at me as he gripped my arm tighter, pulling me along at a faster pace, as if afraid they would overhear. Watson would have found my little deductions fascinating, and he never ceased to think me amazing for making them. _My dear Holmes! You truly are a psychic! _I smiled at the memory of him upon our settee, with his head thrown back as a massive chortle wracked his body. It was a glorious sight.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Surely you wish to explain?"

He did not sound as though an explanation was something he desired, but I did, nonetheless. "The blond youth is wearing prison-issued boots of a fair quality, suggesting that recently he has spent some time doing hard labour." Oscar winced noticeably at this, but I continued. "His near illiteracy can be determined by the initials on the heel of his left boot-_M.C.V. _The letters are extremely crude and ill-formed, suggesting that he is quite uneducated. As for the darker fellow, his disease is in the primary stage, but I can see the beginning of the syphillic soar appearing on the neck. He may not even realise he had been infected yet."

"Does it please you, Sherlock?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He grimaced and motioned left, unto a main road covered with Parisians of every shape and vocation. No rent boys here. We were gradually making our way into the civilized part of the city and turned on to the _Rue de Plage._ "Does it please you to reduce everyone you meet to a mere jumble of observations and statistics? Really, haven't you any compassion?"

It seemed a fair question. After all, I expected many who knew me only through Watson's tales may think compassion something beyond me. In one, the case involving the theft of a photograph of the king of Bohemia, Watson says that I am a perfect reasoning machine. He thought all of the softer emotions beyond me. Is it fair to blame him when I have tried to convince myself of such a falsity? I certainly _try _to keep all of the grit out of my mechanical brain. But like Mrs. Hudson eradicating dust, it is a task that is impossible to win. Such an irrational and terrifying thing as love did invade me. I was reminded of a forced holiday spent in obscure Cornwall in March of this very year.5

_It had been an unexpected case. A fascinating case, filled with those little eccentricities that mean nothing alone, but spell out the fate of a man when taken together. A ring. A fire in warm weather. Some misplaced gravel. And a most rare and deadly powder. I smiled at the memory of the faces of the perplexed regulars, so completely far from the truth. I had caught the culprit, of course. I had solved the murder of two people, and explained every thread of the chain from start to finish. And then, I had let the man, a nefarious African lion-hunter, leave to country. To go free._

_Watson, the epitome of English flesh and blood, had allowed me to, but I could tell from the clouded expression in his dark eyes that his loyalty to his country's laws were battling with his own conscious. He had not to say a word to make this abundantly clear._

_"After all, Watson, our investigation has been independent, and so our action shall be also. Surely, you would not denounce this man?"_

_"Certainly not," he answered, but I knew what he was thinking: _Denouncing him is not the point, Holmes. There are laws to be considered.

_"If it had been someone you had loved, would you have acted as our lion-hunter? Would you have killed her murderer in order to obtain justice?"_

_He would not lie to me just to prove a point. "I fear I might," he said as he lit his pipe. "It does not make it right, but in my despair…perhaps all men are capable of such things. Although I suppose you would say you are immune. Because you have never loved?"_

_I have never loved. The game of shadows was played very well, if I may be allowed to boast. He would never suspect me. Never._

Never.

"You have no right to condemn my disinterest in humanity when you yourself exploit it," said I to Oscar. "Do you think you are doing those unfortunate children any good by inviting them to sleep with you, paying them a bit of money that they will probably waste on the bottle, and then listening to their woes? You are only aiding them in driving them further and further from redemption."

I had thought this would anger him. I think perhaps I had even said it in part to do just that. He was not blameless in this life. But instead of arguing with me as a normal man would be compelled to do, he kissed me upon my cheek. "Really, I did not think you one to agree with me! It is so completely true that charity creates nothing but sin! To think that the great detective is trying to lead me away from sin…down the path of virtue, no less!"

"For God's sake, man!" I exclaimed, pulling momentarily away from him. "Why must you be so vulgar! Someone could have seen!" For a brief second I had the horrid realisation that I was nothing more than a renter myself. A male whore, something far worse for a man. Women pray upon the weakness of men to sell their often only asset. But when a man does so, it means he is incapable applying his intellect and practicality, which should be superior to his counter-sex. No money had exchanged our hands, but our tryst had not been without price. For Oscar it had been a curiosity, a chance to know me as no one else had. For myself, it had been something far worse. One of the seven great sins. This realisation only angered me further. "Can you not be serious, Wilde, for once in your damned life?"

But seriousness seemed a state of mind beyond him. Perhaps that was how he had escaped the inferno that is the English gaol.

"You are serious enough for us both dear boy. How I do like it when you call me by my surname, though! It is something you have never done before. It makes you sound so completely authoritative and masculine." He gave pause to consider a point, clutching my arm tighter. Whatever it was he wanted to say, he instead pointed to a small restaurant directly ahead of us, our destination. "The wine is superb, I think you shall find. And the food is completely delectable. Of course, you are used to the flavourless concoctions of your own country-the charred meats and mashed vegetables, so this may all come as a shock to your system."

The atmosphere was dark and secretive, but the ambiance was one of romance, something I thought inappropriate. Wilde, apparently, was known to this place, for the matre'd said "_Bienvenue en arrière, M. Melmoth," _as he led us to a table in the back. "_J'espère que vous bien?_

_"Non, redoutable, j'ai peur. Mon ami espère changer cela, cependant.__6__" _Oscar smiled brightly as if we were sharing something special, although certainly he did not know I spoke the language nearly fluently. I waited until our man had departed in search of menus to say:

"Is that why you think I am here? To 'cheer you up,' as it were?"

"Oh, no. Robbie would never send _you_ for that. You clearly know nothing of happiness. You are here because I requested you to be."

I am sure I did a poor job of hiding my surprise. "You knew that Mr. Ross wrote me that letter?"

"Of course. I asked him to. You really must try the coq au vin. They make it with pancetta, and both red wine and brandy. It is the stuff of perfection. Your taste-buds deserve a well-earned holiday from shag tobacco and strong coffee, I should think."

Ignoring that, I starred at him affected. "If you are responsible for my being here, than I would kindly ask you to explain. I was under the impression that he wished me to see you, so that I might help you."

"Robbie is a dear boy," said Oscar as he pulled out a silver case and cigarette. "He spoke of you frequently while I was…away. Really, he is the most charming story-teller I have come across, other than myself. Now, Sherlock, you mustn't be mad at Robbie or I. I simply wished to thank you for what you did…and you must not deny that you have sent money for my up-keep, for then I should be compelled to believe you and my little gift of thanks would all be for naught."

"What on Earth are you on about? What 'gift of thanks.'?" I had never felt quite so in the dark before.

Our waiter returned then to pour us each an aperitif of vermouth. I could see no 'gifts' here on his part. Rather an expensive little reach into my own purse. Oscar waved him away when he had finished, saying we would order shortly. He thrust the glass into my hand. "Drink, dear boy. Drink and a toast to your happy future. Your prediction of earlier seems to have come true."

I gazed in bewilderment. "What are you"-

"Your future with Dr. Watson, of course. Robbie tells me you are quite hopelessly in love with him."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

1 Coriolanus, Act II, Scene I

2 Not a canonical fact, which in "The Final Problem" says Holmes was only employed by the French government on a matter of importance, but in the Granada version of the story, they make this problem out to be the theft of the Mona Lisa by Moriarty. A fun little edition.

3 Blake spent the last years of his life illustrating _Dante's Inferno. _They are considered among his greatest contributions to art, and he contributed much.

4 Wilde did stay at this hotel, which today has been completely renovated. I'm not sure exactly what it was like in 1897, and it may have better than I describe. Take it as author's prerogative.

5 For those of you also reading "Confessions of the Master," a similar scene may appear in the next chapter, but with some subtle changes.

6 Welcome back, M. Melmoth. I hope that you have been well? No, dreadful, I am afraid. My friend hopes to change that, however.


	4. Chapter 4

It has always been a theory of mine that many common people fall prey to their baser instinct of acting without thinking through their decisions, which leads to certain destruction. Of course, in my profession, I have seen many calculated crimes, premeditated for days, even months or years, so as to pull off what is known as the perfect crime (which I know to be impossible). However, more often than naught, the common man acts in a fit of passion, in the moment as it were, without considering the repercussions. And that is how one's troubles begin. It is nearly how mine began.

I was furious, of course, to hear Wilde denounce my deepest secret in so blasé a manner. It was not so much surprising that he knew, as I had not taken any pains to hide it from him (although only him), but it was maddening that he would state it so calmly. As if it was a normal topic of conversation. My biggest fear, my only desire, and he wished to discuss it with me over supper.

He must have seen how angry I was. I could feel a burning of emotion that I usually take all pains to conceal. Looking down at my hands, I saw with some surprise that they were shaking. But a temper I knew I did possess, and futile is the man who does not acknowledge his weakness. I was so completely used to my doctor acting as my better-half, keeping my short-coming in check with his equitable demeanour. Meanwhile, Oscar had been blithering non-sensibly, something completely foreign to him. I blamed goal, of course. Although perhaps it was easy enough to blame all his personality changes to that.

"Now, really, Sherlock, you mustn't over-react. Robbie and I thought to act in your best interests only. We have done nothing to jeopardise your Great Wall of discretion. We are not Mongols, after all."

I let him continue on with his explanations and apologies while I considered the matter logically. He knew of my feelings for Watson. I could deny it, lie, probably even effectively as deception was an art in which I would be remembered as a master. But it disturbed me to do so, as I thought of Wilde as the one man with whom I did not have to be dishonest. I found it enjoyable to have a companion, however briefly, with whom I could be my complete self. And so lying was not a prudent choice.

I had known for years that despite my nature and my dark longings, it would only lead to disaster if I acted on them with Watson. He must always remain in the dark. It is true that a common, discretionary man would more than likely be safe from persecution, but I, who was seen as a figure of authority despite my best efforts to separate myself from the Regulars worked too closely with the officials to escape notice. No, silence was the only option. I could not martyr myself. And I could not risk Watson.

"I am sorry if I angered you," said Wilde, truly sounding repentant. "I only wished to help."

"You cannot."

"Is that what you truly think?" There seemed to be a smile playing on his lips.

"I forbid you, Oscar."

"You have the ability to make the Vatican look like our own Cleveland Street1. It is a serious character flaw, this avert Britishness, that I detest in you."

But no matter what he would say, I would not relent. I could not say that my fears were completely justified, as Oscar assured me they were not, but I was not going to risk my freedom. The logical mind detests chance; it prefers facts, always aware of what will happen in the end. Eventually, my companion desisted in his insistent pleas. The topic was changed to more pleasant areas and we enjoyed a fine meal. Oscar was his most charming self, telling me more than I ever cared to know of the culture of Paris. I listened, as I prefer to do in a conversation, letting him flow from Rimbaud's poetry to Gauguin's nudes un-interrupted. He really should have been a Parisian, I thought, but meant it complementary.

After a crème caramel, _digestif _and cigars, Oscar and I headed again into the Parisian night- now completely devoid of light. The supper put a decent sized dent in my cheque-book, but my companion was so content, smiling and leading me by the arm, so I could feel slightly pleased I had come. Perhaps I had done some little good after all.

We walked without worry or rush, neither of us tired, and both of good-spirit, taking the same route we had from the hotel. Oscar hummed _La_ _Marseillaise_ quietly, gripping my arm tightly, as if a lifeline. I felt a strange generosity, an inner peace that was not typical.

The boys were still there, increased in number as a matter of fact, five of them scattered around the statue of the Emperor Napoleon, clearly together, but trying not to appear so. Standing back a fair distance, I stopped Oscar to watch them. A young Corsican near-sighted physician, wealthy and fortunate, walked up to one of the young men: a robust blond fellow with wide shoulders and a wide, confident grin. His dark eyes were deep-set and mistrusting. He appeared between eighteen and twenty. The two spoke with foreheads nearly touching before an agreement was reached and they walked away in the direction of the _Rue de Rivoli_. They were more blatant in this country. The part of me that was French and Bohemian seemed in conflict with the part that was British and conventional. It was a crime what they were doing, and I could not even claim an unjustifiable one. Yet I was not an agent to change this. Neither official police, nor member of a religious order, nor even philanthropist.

"If ever a man should understand them, Sherlock. You who can sympathize with all that is illegal." He gave a little jerk toward the rabble. "Except for suffering. You cannot sympathize with that."

There was a fear to them that permeated through the overt bravado. Yet there was also a suitable disgust and dullness to each of their eyes that should not have been in ones so young. They spoke in confidant, arrogant voices, rolling their tongues across lips and teeth. They smiled at us as we moved closer to them.

_"C'est une belle soiree, est lui pas, monsieur?"__2_

"_L'amabilite n'est pas limitee au survivre a cherie__3_," said Wilde. I silenced him instantly before focusing my most masterful gaze upon the renters.

"I have no desire to pick you up and further finance your delinquency. I came over to offer you a chance at a respectable life."

The four remaining boys- Amaury the illiterate, and Marceau the syphilitic among them, glanced at each other nervously. "What is your friend saying, Melmouth?"

I did not allow Oscar to answer. "I am saying, Monsieur Marceau, that in all four of you I see despair. You certainly must know where your lives will end if you continue down this path."

They were fluttering about like nervous, caged canaries. Flight seemed on everyone's mind. One actually began to inch away from the pack.

"If you run, I promise you will regret it," said I calmly. Pulling out one of my cards and a pen, I wrote a name on the reverse and handed it to the flighty fellow. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am known to the French authorities here. Monsieur Francois Le Villiard, the gentleman whose name I have written on my card, is a police _inspecteur _for whom I once did a tremendous favour. If you present him with this card, he will be obliged to do one for you."

"What can _les flics_ do for us?"

Amaury laughed aloud. "They pay well to fuck us for one! So we don't blow the whistle!"

Ah, the horrors of French manners! I tried to overlook it, remembering that these were practically children I was dealing with. "Yes, well, if that is how you gentlemen choose to employ yourselves, so be it. However, I am offering you a better life."

The flighty boy, whose eyes were dark and twitchy, cocked his head toward Oscar. "Is he quite serious?"

"Oh, always. He is quite unaware that triviality even exists. It is the curse of his people, of course." Oscar paused, and for once it appeared that he was attempting sobriety himself. "My dears, may I suggest…that you heed his advice. This gentleman is one in whose word you can completely rely." I could feel his eyes burning into me. I forced my bearing slightly more erect. It was not part of my character to feel sorry for people. Only the weakest characters used pity as a means of survival.

I had to keep repeating that maxim in my mind to remember it.

The flighty boy, in his peacock coloured suit jacket, read slowly over the name printed on the card several times, but his blank expression suggested that it did not register with him. I wondered if I was making a mistake in giving these lads something with my name on it. Could it be used against me? But my professional services were known, and I could always say that we had had business dealings. Or that it was stolen. I felt reasonably safe.

"I will send word to Monsieur Le Villiard to expect you. Good night, gentlemen," said I, feeling there was little else to say. I gave a slight jerk of my head to my companion.

"We have not said we would go yet," flighty blue boy called.

"Be quiet, Louis," Amaury said to him.

I could hear them talking amongst themselves. I forced Oscar forward. "Do not linger. I have given them the chance. Now they must decide for themselves. You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink."

"That is true enough, and they _are_ the most virile of stallions. But I am not concerned with whether or not they drink the fruits of your benevolence. I am far more interested in why you did it. For everything I know of you tells me that you are the antithesis of myself, and the last thing you would want to do is to categorize yourself with those- the most dangerous of the inverts."

I could not answer that, and even if I could, I knew that I would not. I had categorized-if I had even done that-with the ones who mattered least and saw no reason to fear possible reprisals from a few uneducated prostitutes. "Perhaps I am merely in a philanthropic mood," said I to Oscar.

"Well, it certainly must be the company you keep, then." I smiled, my gaze turning to the Seine glittering along beside us. For the briefest of seconds, I felt a peace with myself that I knew could never come to total actualization. I could never be like Wilde. Nor could I ever be like Amaury, Marceau, Louis and the rest of them. I was made of different stuff, my autonomy carved in stone by my past. I wondered what was best- to have had it all and lost it, as had happened to my companion, or to never have had anything. To neither have loved nor lost.

After a long pace of silence, where the only sound was of our boots on the pavement, Oscar cleared his throat. "They…well, I see those unfortunate lads and I am ashamed. They remind me of my own boys."

I actually thought for a second that he meant the boys he had loved in the past-Lord Alfred, Robbie Ross, John Grey…but of course, logically he meant his sons. I had nearly forgotten he had children. "Your sons are still children."

"Yes, twelve and eleven, in fact. But in a few short years they will be the same age as those dear renters." His eyes fogged and he paused before continuing. "Might one ask why you helped them?"

I knew, of course, what he meant. And so I told him about my irregulars- the Baker Street Irregulars, my little street Arabs, many of whom were forced to do exactly what Amaury and his friends were doing when they found themselves too old for orphanages or petty thievery, too weak to survive the workhouses, un-educated, un-employable and generally without choice as to where they might end up. I tried to help them, but one man can only do so much. And by the time they had reached an age were my occasional hand-out of food and boots, plus a shilling or two was of little use, they would have disappeared into the cesspool of London's backallies to make their living any way possible.

"I was…reminded of young Jack Wiggins," I found myself telling Oscar. "A clever boy, to be sure. He led my irregulars for several years before he reached young manhood. Then he simply appointed another younger boy in charge and I never saw him again."

"This is the same boy from the doctor's stories? He became a child of the night?"

"So his younger brother confessed to me. In my guilt for his situation, I made young Billy my page. We do not speak of his family, but even I am not immune to guilt."

"Or sympathy, after all." Oscar smiled. "You do know, dear boy, that were it not wrong I could love you forever."

"You have picked an appropriate spot to tell me so." I could not look at him, could not see the change in him, how his face had fallen and his eyes had grown cloudy and afraid. I felt his arm barely holding mine and remembered his brazen beauty the day we had met. I remembered how I had been both horrified and fascinated by his manner. So completely the opposite of mine. And yet, somehow, so completely the opposite of Watson's as well.

We drank champagne back at the Marsoiller and my companion collapsed into the purple overstuffed settee, leaving me the hard wicker. I was glad. Comfort was a luxury I could not afford right then. The drink had ceased to be chilled, and there is nothing worse than warm champagne. But Oscar downed one shaky glass after another, until he was bubbling into his hands and half-asleep with rich food, cheap gutter-rot and too much emotion. "I miss them, Sherlock," he said. "My boys. And Constance, too. I hear that…that she is not well. She hasn't been for some time."

I pulled out my cigarette case. For three years, it had been in the possession of the doctor. A good-bye gift, for my sins, a ridiculous memento so he would not forget my rotting bones at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls. Some weeks after I returned, he pushed it into my hand. _This should go back to you, Holmes. _The look on his face—gloomy was the best word to describe it. His thumb caressed its length for a single second before dropping it into my hand. _You might keep it, Watson, _I had said, nonchalantly. _I can always obtain another._

_No, no…_his eyes briefly were overtaken with the same hurt look I had seen when I confessed I had not trusted him enough to tell him I was still alive. I had hurt him more than he realised I knew. But he thought me immune to such human emotions as guilt. I am a machine. As lacking in human sympathy as I am pre-eminent in intelligence, or some such rot. In truth, all I am is deuced good actor. I slammed the accursed reminder of my infidelity onto the side table. "Do you know where they are?"

"Mmm…" His bloated face was pink and wet as he shoved more alcohol into it.

"Wilde!" I snapped my fingers at him. "Do try and remain coherent for another moment. Where are your wife and children?"

He looked as me as if he had briefly forgotten who I was. "Why, Switzerland. Constance had written to me. Once. The poor dears." He broke into a fresh round of sobs that I did my best to ignore.

Some short while later, he was asleep, the alcohol making him sound akin to a freight train. I watched him for some time in the dark, smoking three or four cigarettes. I was not in the least tired, although I should have been. When the blackness closes in on my mind, I wish to do nothing but surrender to it, to let it run its course. Now I did not.

I jumped to my feet and began a systematic search of the room. This was done in the dark, as I did not want to risk waking my friend, but I had long ago learned to perfect the various facets of my occupation under all conditions. I found what I was looking for in the drawer of his vanity. The letter had been folded and unfolded many times. The ink and envelope were of a rather poor quality, non-continental. The paper, however, was fine and thick, buttercream in colour and had apparently been purchased on Tite Street, London. The contents of the letter were of little interest too me, save that it had been started and stopped, then continued no less than three times. A hard correspondence to write, no doubt, to the husband who betrayed you. The letters themselves were soft and overtly feminine, but the occasional word was off-centre, or violently bold as if the writer had suddenly been struck by some pain. That fit with what Oscar had said. Although I feared she was even worse than he might imagine.

I at last examined the envelope's post mark. Sori, near Montrieux. Near the French border and Lake Geneva if my geography served. No return address was given, but none would be needed. I carelessly tossed my friend's only remaining connection back in the drawer, sought out my hat, coat and the remaining bits of costume I had applied and left a hastily scribbled note under remains of the bottle. I added to it most of the money I had on my person—some twenty pounds and about a hundred francs. I disappeared into the night. I had no doubt I would never see Oscar again.

*

At the _Gare_, I purchased a ticket on a sleeper bound for Zurich, after which I could easily catch an express to Montrieux. I felt the necessity for a private berth, as I could hardly stand to have some imbecile chatting me up about holiday plans. The cabin was completely sterile—dark and cold. I found it perfectly suited to my mood. I allowed myself the luxury of removing my coat and unfastening my collar and cuffs before I collapsed onto the tiny bed and jerked the curtain so that I was hidden. The train rocked me pleasantly back and forth. My mind was far too keyed-up for sleep, but I did manage a period of lethargy that nearly mirrored it. As I studied the red inside of my eyelids, I was recalled back to two very different first meetings:

He was a pitiful thing, brown as a savage and tense as a feral feline. His wounded arm was held back protectively, but he did not shirk at shaking me strongly with his good arm. Loyalty radiated throughout that patched bullet wound, depleted muscle tone and the remains of a wrecked constitution. Loyalty to one's country typically meant loyalty to one's fellows. He was a doctor—but a man compelled to treat his country's injured rather than seek wealth or esteem through a Harley Street practise. Therefore, benevolent and self-sacrificing. I listed to him the faults I possessed that were safe for public ears. He did not object. Surely Stamford would have told him I was something of an insufferable automaton, and that he still was all for sharing diggings meant that he was pliable, un-conventional. Or at least bohemian enough to not mind my own extreme un-conventionality.

He was exactly what I wanted. What I needed. He would lie upon our settee, absent-mindedly massaging his wound and I would tell him so with my violin. It was as close to a true feeling as I dared possess. I was not the sort of fellow to act on a wicked caprice of nature.

Until I met Oscar.

I had read a review of his Dorian Grey while in Paris and wasted no time in obtaining an English copy. The French, of course, prized it highly as they do any bit of naked beauty, but I could imagine what my own country would print in response. They would cluck their tongues, wag their moustaches and utter various three-syllable designations. And they were right, of course. That he would flaunt such a thing as Dorian Grey in public was quite despicable. I was intrigued. More than intrigued. Fascinated. Avert bravado in a bugger. Somehow I found that the two rarely went hand-in-glove.

But, as it became inevitable that I would return to London, I put the matter quite out of my mind. There was Watson's forgiveness to seek and whatever superficial reason I chose to explain my sudden reappearance. However, I soon found myself quite forced to re-think my position because of one Inspector George Lestrade. Of all the damned regulars.

I had been to see him on behalf of a client. I tried to avoid Scotland Yard whenever possible because my arrival there inevitably brought a plethora of stares, side-lipped comments and either the occasional snort of disapproval or wide-eyed forced handshake. The Yard employed a full spectrum of intelligence: from none at all to enough to recognise superiority.

I recall that day, Lestrade, his rodent-like face screwed into total authority, was leading a little parade of two or three constables ushering a dishevelled group of rabble cuffed together. Five young men, donning garish bottle-green or peacock-blue jackets, were being shoved along in order to be processed in. For what crime was obvious. But I pretended to be completely oblivious as I crossed the room, waited for the Inspector's pompous attitude to deflate, and made my presence known.

"How are you, Mr. Holmes?" He asked, distractingly shaking my hand. "I apologise I was late for our appointment, but as you see, my presence was needed elsewhere." He waved his hand.

"Indeed. Five at once. A credit to your erudition, Lestrade. Some sort of gang, is it?"

He looked at me in disbelief. "Are you quite serious, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why shouldn't I be? They look like pick-pockets to me. Surely you checked their pockets. I'm sure the tall one—second from the end—those are surely not his boots. And the one in the middle is clearly wearing the watch of a gentleman."

I smiled inwardly as Lestrade looked puzzled. "Well, they probably are at that. I mean, the type…but they have not been picked up on a charge of theft."

"What then?"

"Why," he leaned in closer to mutter the word close to my ear. I pretended to look shocked. He nodded, quite seriously.

"There's some sort of corrosive atmosphere going about, Mr. Holmes," the Inspector said, motioning me to follow him toward his miniscule office. "I have been with the Force for nigh on two decades now, and I can tell you I haven't seen anything like it. Like rabbits, they seem to be multiplying. You find 'em everywhere—and not just the East End and down by the docks. The parks, by restaurants and shops. Even by the theatres." He paused, grimaced, and collapsed dramatically into his chair.

"Not as though we don't have enough on our plates with the women whores. Lord knows they're bad enough. Not to mention the thieves, forgers, murderers and general ne'er-do-wells. It's enough for a man to think he can never win."

The laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. "Really, Lestrade! You are positively scintillating today! I thought you may have been re-telling _The Republic _for a moment, with your views on morality! You make the most convincing Plato."

"You wouldn't think so if you knew how far this…this sickness has penetrated." He stared at me heavily for a brief second, as if he were considering something unfathomable, and I was nearly shocked. Lestrade had a brain after all? But alas, I should have known he did not, for he continued. "Men of…_our _class, Mr. Holmes. _Gentlemen. _I admit, you hear the odd rumour now and again. A misfit. A black sheep in the family. But this is more than that. It is _spreading._"

I snorted. He really was an idiot.

He leaned closer, sallow little eyes squished together in consideration. "I could tell you something, Mr. Holmes. Being that you are something of a help occasionally to me and the Yard. I expect that you will see several names you may have heard of very soon. On the front page of the Times, I expect. Charges of…well, you can imagine what."

I nearly blurted out a question that would have been far too suspicious, even for the likes of a Yarder. But I was able to restrain myself. I was always able to restrain myself. A brain whose body was a mere appendage. His brow furrowed and I knew that I had to immediately change the subject. There was nothing to confirm. I knew whom he meant. Changing my expression to one more masterful, I broached the name of the client on whose behalf I was here. Neither of us ever continued our delightful conversation on London's sudden saturation of buggers. But there remained something I knew I ought to act on.

*

I sent a note addressed to Mr. Oscar Wilde at the Albermarle Club, where the society pages informed me he frequented. I was careful to purchase a common grade of both ink and paper, disguised my handwriting and mailed it rather than risk delivering, even in disguise. I really had little to worry over. There was almost no chance Lestrade would ever catch wind of my betraying his confidence, but I was unwilling to risk it. The note itself was concise—informing him that he ought to be careful of being followed by a certain Inspector. I gave a detailed description.

Of course, I had no reason to think he would heed any advice of an anonymous stranger. No doubt the idea of blackmail had occurred to him by this point; perhaps he had even quietly arranged for a few of his less-than-discreet letters to be stifled. But Lestrade was nothing if not tenacious, and if anything concrete were ever to fall at his feet, he would not be above making a name for himself.

As it happened, the premiere of his _An Ideal Husband_ was set for the following Monday at the Haymarket. Although I had never cared to use my name to garner favours, I found that a discrete word or two would allow me a brief audience with the author.

"Well, Mr…_Vernet_, I see it is. Did you enjoy the viewing of my genius to-night?"

Like a peacock strutting its beauty. "I found it more transparent than many I have met, Mr. Wilde."

"Really?" The cigarette he had been poised to light hung from his mouth more obviously phallic than most men. "Have you met many?"

"None of your calibre, sir."

He smiled. The smoke slipped through his lips. My mind was revisiting "Dorian Grey" and noticing his own eyes were such. As were mine. And the dead Moriarty. All that was important in my own life was grey. Save one. He was brown as British beef.

*

The train jostled then, snapping my mind awake. The whistle howled in my ears as we roared into the dark night. I realised my throat was completely parched. I had no energy to go for water, however. Limp as a rag, I tried to ceasing remembering. It was sapping all my vital fluids. And no cocaine to replace them.

*

It was easy enough to figure out where the professed "Holland" family were staying, as it is with any small village, and in no time at all I had engaged a room direct from the family's apartment in Sori. Why exactly I was here, I had not decided. But I could hardly bear to return to London as yet. The solitude would do me some good.

For the next week, I saw the family, or rather I should say, the children only once, and that was from the window. They had changed from the photographs I had seen of Oscar's, growing as children tend to do. The elder's curls had been shorn away, and at twelve and one half, he had already begun the transformation of growing into his hands and feet. The lines along the jaw had lost their childish pudginess and the brow and chin jutted into early manhood. He walked obstinately, hands on hips, occasionally stopping to shove his younger brother along.

The younger seemed reluctant to fight back, taking the elder's abuse in good stride. Ah! How well I remembered the strife I had with my own brother, though I was never quite as abiding as Master Vyvyan. He still had his father's dark looks, albeit more delicately put together. At barely eleven, he was still plucked in childhood, all arms and teeth, but both were handsome lads. Surely Oscar would have wept to see them.

I made a routine of rising early, taking café and the occasional bürli4 or croissant at a restaurant across the street. From there, I had a view of the entire main street and came to be quite familiar with the comings and goings of the handful of inhabitants. They were all like isolated icebergs, smiling at me as they floated by but not in the least interested in my occupation of the small table by the window, left center. I was free to observe the nearsighted schoolmistress who was in love with the invert parish priest, the clubfooted young carpenter and his wife, who was really his sister, and my personal favourite, the middle-aged, web-fingered farmer with gout who was rather too much attached to his **Franches-Montagne.**5I now saw love everywhere. Perverted, superfluous love.

Another week went by before I decided I had to speak to them. I could have been lost in my misery of the randomness of life, but there was no syringe to make me forget. No. Mustn't resort to that. Better to rely on my own actions to dilute the black water pooling into my brain.

There were a dozen or so other children in the village of approximately the same age and status, yet they only went about with each other. They never spoke to anyone, save an elderly French matron who poked at them with a long rosewood walking-stick. They were so completely friendless. Alone. Very much their father's sons.

They went into the woods most afternoons, throwing a rugby ball about or playing at singlestick with tree branches. They barely looked at me as I approached them. I considered speaking to them in French, as it was the language of Montrieux, pretending that I was a native. But I could not lie to them. They had been lied to so much already.

"Good-afternoon, boys."

Cyril jumped to his feet and moved a step in front of his younger brother, protectively. "Who are you?"

Surprised at my English, no doubt. "Tsk. Manners, dear boy. Is that how one speaks to his elder? I am…merely someone who hopes to be a friend to you both."

I was rewarded for this with looks of suspicion. "We don't have any friends," young Vyvyan spoke up.

"Really? And do you know why that is?"

The younger shook his head slowly. A tabula rasa. But Master Cyril's chin jutted out and his expression darkened considerably. He knew. He _knew. _The corner of my mouth twitched. How could one no pity a child faced with such a knowledge that he could not possibly understand yet had to live with for the rest of his life? I leaned heavily on my stick, considering.

If only I could force understanding from my own brain into his dark eyes. But how does one explain a sympathy that so few men in our age possess? And to a child at that. I was certain it would take a wiser, braver man than even myself to risk it. The best course seemed to be to avoid the truth until I decided just what in the name of Heaven I hoped to accomplish here.

"I had heard there was an English family staying here in Sori," I explained. "And although my knowledge of French is adequate, I longed to speak our Mother Tongue with my countrymen again. Might I impose upon you lads to accompany me to the chocoláterie? I should like to treat you both."

Vyvyan immediately took a step toward me, only to be called back by his more cautious brother. "Mother wouldn't like out going anywhere with a stranger."

"But I want some chocolate."

Cyril smacked his brother's arm, shaking his head.

"Indeed your brother is most correct. You would do well to listen to him. We must stop at your flat and ask your parents' permission first." I intentionally emphasised the word 'parents' to gage the reaction. Master Vyvyan skipped down to the path, bidding me to follow him. Master Cyril flinched as if he had been slapped.

The Holland's flat was a dismal little affair of various portmanteaus and valises strung about, some unpacked and some in disarray. Packing cartons were piled up in the centre room, trying to look unobtrusive. The walls were bare. The furniture—which consisted of a sofa, one armchair, a sidebar and china cabinet—gleamed in the soft lighting with cleanliness, but no flowers, no pictures. No misshapen lumps of artwork by adoring sons. This was a family with no past and whose future hinged on remaining so. For the first time, I felt something for them akin to what I felt for Oscar.

The boys brought me in to their mother, who was sitting on the sofa propped up by several pillows, knitting rapidly. Concern flooded her eyes as they were laid upon me and she immediately set aside her craft. I bade her not to rise.

"Cyril," she said in an uneven voice, reaching for his arm. "What is this?"

The look upon her face clearly made one think that what she really wanted to say was _what have you done? _"Forgive my intrusion, ma'am. My name is Vernet. I had met your sons in the wood surrounding this place. Well, in truth, I knew that there was an English family staying here, as the mistress of the Sümstang Haus where I am staying made a point in telling me. I am from Cornwall, myself."

"Oh." Her face coloured slightly in relief. "I see. How nice to meet you, Mr. Vernet."

"Indeed. You see, I have been away from Our Home for some time—nearly four years in fact. And it is gratifying to be amongst countrymen once again."

"Four years!" She looked even more placated.

"Yes. My profession requires me to travel a great deal. This past year I have been working as undersecretary to one of our diplomats in Lyón. Fascinating man. And before that, I travelled with Lord Essingham and family as the tutor of their two young lads, before they attended Eton, that is. He was the provincial governor of Assam, in India. And before that"—I purposively stopped and smiled. "Forgive me. How I do seem to be going on. You certainly do not want my entire employment history."

"Oh…oh, no. But…I am sure it is fascinating work. The boys would enjoy hearing about India. You will stay and take tea with us?"

"I would very much like to, ma'am. But I see you are otherwise occupied and have no wish to put you out. Would it be equitable to you if I were to take the lads here out for some chocolate? Then we would all be out of your hair, as it were."

"May we, Mother?" Vyvyan bounced up from the sofa.

She looked them over. Cyril picked at some lint on his jacket and offered no opinion. "Well. You will have them home before too long, Mr. Vernet?"

"My word, ma'am." I offered her a chivalrous smile that on occasion I have allowed Watson to glimpse. He has told me it is quite charming, or at least said something to the fact that I could be with the fair sex when I so desired. _The fair sex is your department _I had snapped at him. But he never read anything into that.

Mrs. Holland did rise as I shook her hand to leave, and she was very awkward getting to her feet. A spinal lesion? Or perhaps a cracked vertebra? Some sort of injury that had never healed correctly. Colossally painful, to be sure. In a moment of whimsy I cursed the fates that she had not had the good sense to marry someone more like my Watson, who would no doubt be here with her this very moment holding her hand, bringing her a warm drink, gently tucking her in at night and never dreaming of taking any sort of husbandly liberties. The sort of everyman needed to complete any pastoral image. But not meant to be.

"Will you tell us about India, Mr. Vernet?" The younger brother asked me as we paraded down the street.

"Certainly, I will. It may interest you to know that I once dined in a tent with the Raj Perjahan, who was an avid hunter and friend of my employer. While we were about our pudding, there came to be a loud rustling outside. And then a sort of hissing growl"—

Master Cyril was looking at me now.

"I managed to usher both the Raj and my master out of the tent before it was ripped to shreds. The Raj, however, immediately sent his servant for his rifle and he fired several shots into where previous we had sat, enjoying a delicious gateau. The whole structure collapsed and there was a most obnoxious noise. Rather like a lady screaming, I should liken it to."

"What was it?"

Master Vyvyan's eyes were like saucers at my story. I never would have thought that I was one to placate children with tales, but apparently all the lonely hours of my own childhood spent amusing myself had some purpose after all. "Oh, a Bengal tiger. A young male, not two years old. Biggest one I ever saw at that age. Teeth as long as a .303 British cartridge." I stretched two fingers to an unfeasible length for teeth.

"Did you have it stuffed?"

"To be sure. Unfortunately, I was nay in a position to keep it. The Raj presented it to Lord Essingham, my employer. A beautiful specimen it was, too. He used it as a rug in his study once he had been home to London."

We arrived at the chocoláterie, run by some ancient maid, ironically substantial in the hips, and a sufferer from gout, who served us with two mugs of steaming chocolate and cream and a café for myself. We settled into a window bench and I watched them, observing. The younger drank with a vigour worthy of my brother, while the elder sipped manfully, his light eyes studying his changing reflection in the glass. His mind was obviously far away.

I snapped it back. "Tell me, lads—where is your father?"

Crude of me, to be sure. Unworthy even. But it is equally unworthy to prolong the pain of a farce when there is an avenue for advancement. And it thought it necessary to explore this new avenue.

Cyril slammed his mug down. Vyvyan looked at him, eyes wide. He inched his spine slightly straighter. No answer followed.

"Oh, dear. I am sorry. I see that I spoke out of turn. Your expressions are clear enough. Is he…is he deceased?"

"Yes," said Master Cyril in a monotone. His brother nodded his accession.

"My apologies. Were I more observant I would have noticed your mother's lack of wedding ring. I sometimes miss trifles such as this. Has it been very long?"

"Four years." Cyril said this the same moment his brother added, "He did a bad thing and was in gaol."

I have never seen such a change come over a boy. His pubescent face reddened and he smacked the younger boy hard enough to cause a flinch in myself. Poor, ignorant Vyvyan cried out, his first instinct seeming to be retaliation as he raised a fist, but I quickly intervened, clasping his arm in my hand, reminding them to behave like gentlemen and not heathens. "Here, here, boys. This will not do in public. Remember that you are Englishmen. Now, now, there must be no hard feelings."

Both boys glared at each other. I bade them to shake hands and they did so, but clearly for my own sake. "We all make mistakes in life. Clearly your father did just that, but I am sure were he here, he would not desire his sons to fight over his honour. I am sure that he loved the both of you and your mother. It matters little that he committed some wrong-doing. You are both fine lads and your mother is a genuine lady. You need feel no shame."

This mollified them and they ceased there hateful glares. The rest of the afternoon was far more pleasant as Oscar's sons drank there way through another mug of chocolate apiece and I delighted them with more imaginary tales of the exploits of Mr. Vernet. Watson himself would have been bemused with my romances—given the many times I had berated him for such a fault in his own writings. There was not so much of a difference as one might think. I was amusing children and he the great, childlike masses.

The sun was beginning its descent when we vacated the shop—illuminating the crust of snow blanketing the glorious Alps with which we were at its very doorstep. The air had taken on a distinct chill. I felt it as I studied the capped head of the eldest Holland boy. His hands were buried deep in his pockets. Every crack and stone in the road held an interest for him. The sagging shoulders, the razor-thin frown. I had a sudden memory. One I had tried to remove permanently, but like a child's half-erased slate, it still held a ghostly impression. A similar boy: bright, alone, forced to deal with issues no child should have a mind for. I allowed a heavy breath. Well. 'If it were done, than 'twere well it were done quickly' as Macbeth said, pondering murder.

"Master Vyvyan? Would you be kind enough to run ahead and make sure your mother is alright? I fear I may have inadvertently kept you away from her longer than I intended."

Not young or naïve enough to believe me, he nevertheless sped away with no less than three glances over a shoulder. I waited until his footfalls could no longer be heard. "Master Cyril," said I. "I am sorry to tell you I have deceived you. You see, I am actually a detective in the employment of your father. He hired me to find you." Ah! A lie replaces a lie. The poor child. But as the words spilled from my lips, I realised how much truth there was in what I was saying. Hardly a lie at all.

He stared at me and said nothing. Such anger. His chin twitched and his hand folded into a fist. I had seen such a look before taking a cross to the face in my boxing days. I grabbed his arm in anticipation of exactly this. "Let go of me, you…you…"

But no expletive followed.

"You can say it if you wish."

"I don't have to! You know what you are!"

I could have nearly smiled if it had not been so inappropriate. I gripped his arm tighter as he continued to fight me. I spoke directly into those dark eyes. Oscar's eyes. "You will hear what I have to say before running."

"I don't have to listen to you!"

"Yet you will hear me out, nonetheless. Cyril, I know that you understand a great many things about what has happened to you. Or rather you think you do. But you are in a situation to see only the pain caused to yourself, your brother and your mother. You know nothing of the pain your father is suffering."

"I hope he is suffering! He betrayed us!"

"He did. But he has been betrayed as well. By those he loved and by a country he has done much for. The price he paid for that betrayal is the loss of love you once had for him. And now, as his health rapidly declines, he feels the pain that only one who has lost everything can feel."

Cyril at last pulled his arm free, took a step and hesitated. The pain of having been forced to remember all the pain bottled-up within his young brain was making him shake. He would have been in tears had he not reached an age the discouraged young men from such emotional outbursts. But his eyes were pink. "Why does he want to know where we are?" he asked, his back still turned from me. "I won't allow him to hurt Mama more than she is. And Vyvyan thinks he is dead."

"I've no doubt he soon will be." My lips pursed. It was a thought I had not dwelled on, but realised. One need not possess much medical knowledge to know that Wilde's health was wrecked from gaol—and his drinking was exacerbating his condition.

I thought he might say "good," run off, and be done with me. Could one blame him? Not I. But he did not. Rather, he stood a few paces in front of me, digging at the ground with one boot toe. I allowed him the moment. To consider. He was like young Wiggins. A lad faced with a decision he should never have had to face, but life had forced upon him. Whether to betray ones morals and instincts in order to survive. And the instinct for survival is the strongest one that a human possesses.

"I won't see him," the boy asserted. "I must protect Mama and Vyv."

"I should think 'seeing' him is something impossible in this life, Cyril."

"What does he want then?"

Forgiveness. No doubt. As do we all for our sins. _You have my most sincere apologies, Watson. _I looked into his dark eyes as I shed the remains of my bookseller costume and saw relief. Joy. But pain as well. _I would have thought I was at least as trustworthy as your brother. _A thousand times more so. _But you have a kinder heart. _His hands shook as he shoved them into his pockets. I had regained his friendship. His partnership. His camaraderie. But not his trust.

Not his forgiveness.

"I doubt he expects forgiveness. But perhaps a chance to say good-bye is called for."

He nodded and mumbled something under his voice I couldn't make out. He then proceeded to burst into tears,despite his, much to my discomfiture. If Watson were there, he would know what to say to comfort the lad. As it were, I could only stand there, resting a hand on his shoulder and wish I had kept a promise made years ago to never form any sort of attachment to another person. At that moment, it seemed best.

*

The envelope read "Mr. Vernet" in a childish scrawl, one who paid little attention to his writing master. I opened it, transferring the single page to a separate address: Mr. Sebastian Melmouth. Just before arriving back in London, as I switched for Victoria Station, I slipped the note into a mailbox with adequate postage. I was egotistical to hope it would do more good than harm.

*

_Dear Papa_

_I along with my brother (your son) and our Mother are all well. Though Mama is occasionally down with pain in her back. I and Vyvyan try to be good soldiers for her and take care of her good. We expect to ship off to school in Germany soon and though we will be separated we will do all right. Mister Vernet said you are in France. I should like first rate to see France some day. Have you gone to the Moner Lisa or done the Iffel tower? Vyv says that he should like to spit off it and see how far it goes. But don't worry—I told him he couldn't for fear he may land it on someones head. Mister Vernet also says that you may be dying soon and I am sorry. He says we cannot see you and I guess that is best but sometimes I remember your stories and I wish I could see you. I guess I remember you more than Vyvyan since I am older, but I tell him about all the good stories you told and he likes them. I guess I wish you could write me back but I know you shan't. I hope you remember us sometimes. We will be good and say our prayers and remember our duty to Mama._

_Love from your son,_

_Cyril Holland_

_*_

1 Sight of a famous (or infamous) sex scandal in 1889 involving telegram boys. Wilde makes reference to it in TPoDG

2 It is a beautiful evening, is it not, mister?

3 The beauty (amiability) is not limited to the weather, my dear

4 Type of small Swiss bread

5 A popular breed of Swiss horse


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: De profundis, I return. This is the last chapter of this story, but there will be an epilogue some time soon. And some time soon does not mean another year. You know, hopefully._

Wilde

There's a piece of prose poetry in my hand penned by a child not thirteen, yet far more perfect than anything I would have dared to create.

A heavy sigh and I carefully fold the treasure to return it to its envelope. I have known for many years the young would be my downfall.

The envelope stays in my hand as I rise. Cyril's name is the only one visible on this piece of sanctifying grace though I see clearly whose invisible one is behind it.

But what to do about it?

Were I the same man I once was, I might put pen to paper and create a fascinating fictional coup de grâce in which a certain doctor falls into the arms of a charming bohemian with a soul not fit for consumption by society.

My hand closes around the neck of a perspiring bottle of The Devil's wine1. I feel its wet shaft drip through my fingers. And splatter onto my trouser leg.

I regard this stain for some time. A random stain like the very one my own name now was throughout Her Majesty's realm. Could I commit such an innocent to the same fate?

Once again, I rise with my golden prize tapping against my hip. His goodness had done much to shield me and his genius had done much to shield himself.

What to do? What to do?

My eye catches the wink of silver on my side table. His cigarette case. I had forgotten he'd abandoned it to my care. In my hand, it bites with a bitter winter chill. Completely unyielding. His monogram, _SH, _carefully engraved into the silver lining.

A groan escapes my lips.

There is perfection to life after all. One that clearly illustrates that a man like Sherlock Holmes would never be sentimental enough to mark his own cigarette case. Sentimentality was a feature that only stained his better-half.

As it should be with most sins, I wait until dark to perpetuate my act. I sip a very hot cup of café and nibble at a baguette and some rather pungent brie. I take up the pen in hand. A stream of prose poetry nearly as effectual as that written by my flesh and blood emerges.

I write the address in a bold and completely masculine hand such as he would be accustomed to:

**'**_**Dr. John Watson**_

_**221 B Baker Street**_

_** London, NW1**_

_** England'**_

Watson

Holmes returned as suddenly as he'd left a week before the letter arrived. Wherever he'd been and whatever he'd done remained unsaid. But this was in no way uncommon for the man, as Holmes was frequently mum on the subject of his activities when he did not require my assistance. He was otherwise completely himself. Which is, ignoring me for hours or days on end, racing in and out of the flat at all sorts of ungodly hours and indulging in his various filthy habits.

The letter sat with the morning paper, a few bills, several adverts and my breakfast. I thought little of it as I spooned squab and tomato onto my plate, filling my cup to the brim with Mrs. Hudson's pungent coffee. Holmes's foul clay pipe lay abandoned sideways on the arm of his chair, an ant-like trail of tobacco leading from his bedroom to the hearth of the fireplace. So he was up and out already. And probably not in the best of moods, as indicated by his choice of instrument. Noticing this was a trifle of course, barely perceptible, but I had learned to look for the small things.

One and one-half decades living with the man had rubbed some small bit of sense off on me I suppose. The thought made me smile. At least it was one of his more acceptable traits that I had acquired.

I was adding sugar to my second cup of coffee whilst devouring the sports page of the _Times _when the letter caught my eye. There was clearly a French stamp on it. The words _Republique Française _caught my eye. I picked it up to verify. Sure enough, my name was the one addressed and the postmark read Paris.

Paris? I knew no one in all of France. Although Holmes had supposedly just returned from there. That was a bit queer…

I ripped the flap off and pulled a single piece of paper out. Thick and good quality, buttercream in colour. For some reason, a dull chill ran the length of my spine arriving clearly in the spot of my old wound. Something was not right. Forty-plus years of life, a war and two decades of medicine had taught me foreboding.

And it usually stood me in good stead. The letter read as follows:

_My Dear Doctor,_

_ As a medical man, I am sure you are aware of instances in nature that are perceived as abnormal and scandalous. I speak specifically of sexual acts between two men. There is no point in overt, flowery language so I come to the point. The man you once called 'the best and wisest man you have known' is, what is called in the back alleys of London, a bugger._

_ A sodimite. An Uranist. A__ connoisseur__ of Spartan culture. I hope you forgive the vulgarity of my tone but I find frankness a virtue in my line of work._

_ You must come to me here at this address: 13 rue Marsollier, the Hotel Marsollier, room one._

_ You must not, under any circumstances, inform Mr. Holmes of anything in this correspondence. To do so will mean that he will be lost to you for all time. The specifics I prefer to discuss in person with you. I will expect your charming countenance to grace my door-step no later than Thursday, the 24__th__ of this month._

_ Yours in expectation,_

_ Sebastian Melmoth_

Wilde

I have one atrocious habit I wish I could break myself of: falling asleep in my chair. To do so tends to mean I wake with saliva pasted to my chin, the imprint of wicker on my cheek and a bodily soreness the most vigorous of nightly exertions cannot match.

This is the hellish part of the game. The waiting. Such as how it was the preceding two years of my life. In gaol, it is all one knows. It is all one _can _know. Yet all one wishes to forget.

Ah! Some one rapping, rapping at my chamber door. And not just any ordinary knock. It is an English knocking. A soldier's knock. There is quite a recognizable element of the treatment of fist to wood that immediately identifies _he _is here.

His Boswell that he would be lost without, as Sherlock once confessed to the world.

"Entre," I call out after attempting to make myself presentable with a moistened handkerchief. As it were with my past theatrical successes, I now have a rôle to play.

And if I do it right, it will surely bring the house down.

Watson

I took only my medical bag (habit has dictated that I am rarely without it) and a change of clothing. I left the house before Holmes had a chance to return. There was no time to think. I would not _allow _myself time to think. If I had, I knew I couldn't do it. He would return and one look at my flushed face and twitching hands would be enough to deduce I was on the verge of shattering every nerve in my body.

I hurriedly informed Mrs. Hudson that a medical emergency had arisen and that I would be out of the city for a day or two. I asked her to make my apologies to Mr. Holmes about the suddenness of my departure.

"Well, he's gone behind _your _back enough, doctor," my landlady said with a clever grin. "I'd say turnabouts fair game."

I winced. Yes, yes, he _has, _hasn't he? Gone behind my back indeed.

I stopped at my bank and withdrew ₤500. It was more, far more in fact, than I could afford to lose but what else could I do? Blackmail is an ugly game as I knew full well. Our adventure against the blackguard Charles Augustus Milverton had taught me just how ugly it could get.

Perhaps that's why I tucked my revolver into my jacket pocket.

Wilde

He comes.

He is wearing a black worsted suit, black military-style boots. His black bowler is clenched in one fist. The only bit of colour is a navy four-in-hand2 knotted tightly to his neck. He could be the most clubbable member of The Carlton3. A walking symbol of the British Empire.

He comes closer, the floor groaning under his unsteady step. "Are you Mr. Melmoth?"

I nod my consent. What a pretty package my dear detective has picked to ruin himself over! Eye of brave brown, a well-proportioned frame—a soldier's body. The moustache is trimmed to hair's width of perfection.

But Sherlock is far too fundamental to fall in love with such trivialities.

"How dare you sir! How dare you think you can blackmail a man like Sherlock Holmes!"

Aha! The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple. Even with detectives. And doctors. "Would you like some whiskey?" I motion to a fresh bottle I have set out upon the card table to double as a dining set.

"I do not drink with…creatures such as you."

"Such a puerile maxim…letting good alcohol go to waste to prove a point."

His teeth are grinding. Ten paces away and I could see his neck as it flushed an unbecoming shade of scarlet. "You are a blackmailer. The most foul, repulsive creature upon the face of the Earth."

Indeed. I am. But not for the reason he thinks.

"What do you want?" He is pacing about my chair now. I wish I could take my eyes off of him. To make this easy. But love never was meant to be so elementary.

"I believe I made my intentions clear in my note," I say. "Here is how such negotiations work. I inform you that I have proof—say, a letter. Possibly even a photograph. You beg me not to ruin the man's reputation"—

"You blackguard!"

I smile and hold up the back of a photo of the loveliest child I have ever laid eyes on. Even more so than my dear Bosie. But the doctor sees only that I have a picture—any sort of picture—and it could be damning to his friend. The scarlet drains to white. "Now I think you are ready to hear what I have to say."

Watson

It isn't as though I believed a word of it. That was certainly not what bothered me. No.

The train lurched and my revolver jabbed into my ribs. A reminder that I had sunk far along the road to the hottest fires of Hell. And he led me there, hand in glove, whether his intentions were good or not, as the proverb says. How could he do this to me? The best friend I had ever had.

I forgot to remind myself that I do not believe this Melmoth's lies.

My lungs heaved out a heavy sigh and my head fell back against the rest. I tried to remember some sign, some definite clue he had given me. But how does a decent, normal gentleman see depravity in the one man closest to him?

I looked to the window, past the reflection to the countryside. Holmes had once told me something, a line I should have no reason to remember except that it filled me with a curious sort of horror. He had said something about the vilest London alleys not presenting a more dreadful record of sin than the beautiful countryside. And I had told him how horrible that was.

_"But think of the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places and none the wiser."_

Yes, _that _I could remember verbatim. How true, Holmes. How true.

Wilde

His standards are lowered sufficiently after I prove my authenticity. He takes not one, but two full servings of my cheap whiskey. And still his breathing is irregular as his fingers nervously fiddle with the glass.

He is the proof that I laid before the good doctor:

"Sherlock Holmes would never engage in such a…an activity."

That is Watson trying to convince himself.

"I mean, even if I suspected his nature ran to such a…perversion, he would never—he couldn't risk such a thing. His being a logician, a detective…well, it is more than mere _occupation_ or a job. It is what keeps him sane."

That is Watson failing to convince himself.

Now, I am no analytical genius like Sherlock but I occasionally have a word or two to say on human nature in general. And I find, (generally), that one protests vigorously what one already knows to be true. "You yourself say that he holds little regard for women"—

"That does _not _mean he has so for men!"

I fear it does, my dear Sherlock's Watson.

"He sought me out and not the other way 'round," I tell him. "He never gave a name not did I ask. But some names circulate without the wagging of tongues. We were intimate just the once"—

He slams his fist on the table. "I don't wish to hear this!"

"He has a scar on his right buttock, round, about two inches across."

Again, the protective fist flies dangerously close to my poor table. This time, however, it freezes midair just above the surface.

His eyes suddenly are flooded with brown as the pupils dilate to the size of a spec. I hear the harmonic sounds of a victory horn in the near distance.

"You, as his doctor, knew of course."

When those soldier's eyes fall on me, I could nearly shudder for the hatred I see. But all he does is nod. "He…he fell from a horse at the age of eleven and landed on a wire barb. Several nerve endings were served and are causing him the occasional rheumatism. He told me as much and allowed me to inject the muscle with morphine. He is not one to complain of pain but…" He rubs his mouth as if he suddenly bit into something distasteful.

I wonder if I need go on? Well, I suppose if we are to journey to Hades we may as well do so in comfort and certainty. "I suppose I should tell you then, _John, _that when he reached his bliss, it was your name he cried out."

Watson

There was this bloke I recall from my Army days, a man I hadn't thought of in years, but the memory of whom I suddenly was forced to relive.

His name was…Eckles? Or maybe Eddles. Something of the like. A small fellow of a thin frame but a strongly chiseled face and body that no one, I dare say, would have seen any effeminacy in. He was a cavalryman, as I remember it, and under normal circumstances we shouldn't chance to meet (there is a certain amount of snobbery in the military as in other facets of life that separates cavalry from artillery, medical from the front lines), but one boiling day as we sat in camp waiting for orders, fighting only boredom, this young lieutenant sought me out.

"Pardon me, doctor…Dr. Watson, is it?"

I looked up, somewhat annoyingly, as the heat was praying on everyone's nerves. "It is indeed. What can I help you with?"

"Well, I…" his eyes shifted about, as if scanning the area for prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. "This isn't a question you may come across much. But I suppose it falls under the banner of a medical query."

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat. "I seem to have this, err, curious affliction. And I cannot shake it. It vexes me constantly. And I wish—no I beg—that you could make it go away."

"My dear fellow! Pray tell me what it is."

He did. I can still recall his flushed red face, his nervous hand shaking, his quivering lips. The poor lad. He couldn't have been more than five and twenty and though I thought him more my colleague at the time, I now remember him as hardly more than a boy.

And what did I tell him? What was the cure to the unnamable demon that lived in him?

"I don't know that there really is a 'cure' per se…"

"Please! Doctor, I assure you, I will try anything."

"Well…have you tried women? Perhaps if you had one, preferably one well-experienced, if you catch my meaning, you might realise the pleasures that lay there."

Yes. That was my advice. Whether Eckles (or Eddles) took it, I cannot say. I never saw the boy again.

And hence the entire scope of my sodomitic knowledge. I now wonder how much I may have missed. If such deviances could befall even Sherlock Holmes, than certainly no man could consider himself immune.

Perhaps not even myself.

Wilde

I know that the name 'Oscar Wilde' was once renown for its ability to create witticisms. But all the pretty words in the world could not disguise the ugly scars that marred his fall.

Sebastian Melmoth is more a plain speaker. By being a bore, he can easily distract his new acquaintances from anything in his past by putting them to sleep. So, like Sherlock, he allows himself no flights of fancy and sticks to plain fact. Even those that pertain to one's colleagues' ejaculations.

He probably should have known to hold his tongue. Oscar Wilde would not have; he was used to holding other intimate parts of the anatomy. But Monsieur Melmoth really should have known better.

I thought so as the good doctor pulled his steadfast Army revolver and held it aimed at my chest.

Watson

I know now why Holmes went out of his way to assist Lady Eva Blackwell in our adventure against the odious Charles Augustus Milverton.

He burgled the man's flat.

He allowed himself to become engaged to be married. To a housemaid!

And he was quite willing to commit a murder had not another of Milverton's unhappy victims beaten him to it.

I felt the cool, steady Enfield in my hand as I pointed it at Melmoth. I enjoyed the familiarity of its feel—it had been a part of my hand since '80. Seventeen years. And even if I didn't appreciate having to use it, it was a powerful feeling.

But I couldn't know if I would be willing to do for my dearest friend what he would have done for a stranger.

Wilde

"Give me the photograph. And anything else you may have."

I wonder if I felt shock. Or panic. I don't think I did. I have never had a gun leveled at my person (save the British judicial system) but my heart skipped perhaps only one beat. I leaned forward until my chair legs squealed under my weight. "Now…doctor, you must think clearly about what you are doing."

"Must I?" He (and his weapon) stepped closer. "You deserve no consideration in my book."

I let out a long breath. The truth, I suppose, would out after all. "I have no letter. No photograph. Nothing. Oh, I have told you what has happened in every respect. But I cannot prove but what I have said."

Those delicious eyes blinked several times. The corners of his moustache turned downward.

"I am not a blackmailer." (Would I live in such squalor if I were?) "Rather I am one who owes your friend a debt. A debt I wish I could pay by allowing him some small happiness. I have lured you here, doctor, to tell you—whether you will believe me or not—that your friend is quite in love with you."

The armed appendage was quite noticeably shaking. But I knew him not well enough to say whether from anger or shock. His next words would be absolutely crucial.

How unfortunate that I never got to hear them.

Watson

Holmes would later ask me if I would have really pulled the trigger. I don't think he expected an answer and I didn't offer one. I am uncertain I had one.

No, that's a lie. I did have an answer.

The door banged open so suddenly Melmoth and I both jumped. He was unquestionably lucky my gun hand remained steady as ever. For I dare say we were both shocked to the core to see Holmes standing there with flushed face, panting as hard as if Satan himself had chased him here from London.

"Wilde," he gasped. "Don't do this…I told you…I forbade you…"

I really feared for a moment he would succumb to cardiac arrest. I have never seen him gasp so for breath. He glanced at me but the look suggested nothing. It was as though he barely registered my presence. His attention was squarely focused at the man seated opposite me.

"Too late, I fear, Sherlock."

Holmes's jaw clamped down hard.

"I have already told him."

Those gray eyes, the ones I would be forced use such adjectives as 'intense' and 'nearly inhuman' to describe fell upon my person with a clear look of horror. It was a desperate look. One that even in my immense confusion and anger, I had to nearly force myself not to assist him with. There was clearly a pleading quality to his fear that called to me. I, who have always offered my humble service to him wherever and whenever he required it, could hardly refuse even now to go to him.

But an instant later the fear was gone and he let out a low moan. His long fingers pressed to his temple for a moment before walking right between my weapon and my target to seize Melmoth's quart bottle of rot gut and pour himself a generous portion.

The room (its occupants included) was still as midnight as he downed this bit of courage. The hand did not shake. For some reason, this constituted a sense of pride in me. _Even now I am still awed and proud of knowing such a great man._

But he still had not said one word to me.

"Why, Wilde?" Holmes seemed to be speaking more to his whisky glass. "Why would you do this?"

"Why am I holding an act of contrition from my wayward child?"

Holmes slammed the glass down. "I was trying to help you, damnit!"

"As am I, dear boy. As am I."

He gave a short laugh. "So ruining me is your idea of help."

Rather than answer, Melmoth (or whoever he was) strolled over to me, leisurely put his hand on my weapon and snatched it away. I was too disturbed to make any protest. So apparently was Holmes because he simply stood and gawked as he gently placed it on the side table next to what looked like a cigarette case.

"Gentlemen," said he, his back facing us. "My apologies for forcing one another on you in this manner. Sherlock, I assure you that you are not lost. I rather hope you may at last have been found. But I suppose that depends on whether our doctor is willing to at last look for you."

Wilde

Did I know Sherlock would appear like that? God no! How could I? How could anyone?

"You left the bloody letter lying on the table, Watson," Sherlock was mumbling. "Be thankful Mrs. Hudson has couth enough not to pry in her tenants' mail."

I don't think he even heard.

"Not that it would matter. She knows my line of work breeds parasitic blackmailers like a Petri dish of bacteria. As I would have hoped _you _knew."

The doctor condescends to look at him.

And Sherlock babbles on:

(An affliction I thought him incapable of)

"You really should know better. Running off like an impetuous child to defend my honour! Why on Earth did you not simply come to me?"

The doctor speaks:

"Holmes."

"A blackmailer will say anything for his ends to justify his means, you know, Watson."

The doctor's arm flies forward suddenly and I fear he is going to strike him. But he does not. He places it on his friend's arm as naturally as a husband kissing his wife good-night or a soldier taking a bullet for his country.

"Holmes," he says. "Stop."

Sherlock stops.

*

1 Champagne

2 Popular 19th century tie.

3 Probably the most famous and oldest Conservative club in London


	6. Chapter 6

Hello all-Just finished this and will have Confessions up in a day or two.

Epilogue:

October 1902

Watson's hand is tucked securely into the crook of my arm. Nothing unusual about that. We might be taking the air at Regent's Park; we might be casually strolling to the tobacconist on Baker Street or the newspaper shop. We might be trudging to an imminent departure at the falls of Reichenbach. We might be anywhere in the world. But we would not be so at ease if we were not in Paris. For Watson, Afghanistan was his catalyst. I added the chemical reactant when first we met in London. But Paris was the yield1.

He is limping—almost imperceptive, but I notice. Four months previous a Killer called Evans came within a bullet's length of his femoral artery. This act would have instantaneously linked his title to what I myself would have become. A killer. As it were, the butt of my revolver cracked his thick skull.

"You're alright?" I ask him.

"Fine."

My brain instantly analyses his tone for signs of deception. It is a habit I cannot force out of my genes, try as I might for the doctor's sake. I still have much to learn of the ways a lover should behave. He has no reason for falsehoods. Neither of us has anymore.

We are on _L'Avenue de la République_, several kilometres south of the heart of Paris. We are nearing _Le cimetiére de Bagneux_. Both he and I know why we're on the continent and there is little to say. Little either of us can do to lighten the mood. But in a sea of reds, a river of violets, and an ocean of yellows and greens, Watson and I wear black for a reason.

"A cup of coffee?"

"Hmm?"

"Coffee." I point toward four white umbrellas scattered around a chalkboard sign advertising soup de jours, various wines and pastries. "Perhaps a cup before we…" I purposively let my thought trial off.

"Oh, yes. Indeed."

The waiter, a blond moustached expatriate with a clubfoot, nods obsequiously as I order café au lait for us both and watch as Watson stretches out his right leg under the table. He rubs at the thigh, kneading the muscle with his fingers. I make a mental notation to force him to get a complete check-up when we return to London. Although he is far more disposed about matters of his own health than I. He may tell me that I am worrying about nothing. But I have visions of thrombosis dancing in my head, spreading to his lung or heart, killing him as he lay next to me. Death means very little before one has anything to lose. It means everything when one does.

"You are sure you are alright?" He dislikes having questions repeated but I do it anyway.

"I said I was fine, Holmes."

"Yes. I know what you _said, _Watson." I light us both a cigarette.

His glare disappears and he smiles, shaking his head. He puts the cigarette in his mouth and we both puff wordlessly. More than twenty years and we still call each other by our surnames. This is unlikely to change. Five years he has shared my bed, the deepest sin and secret of our lives, yet I never could call him John. He will always be Watson.

The expatriate (he was a Brummy2, I was nearly certain, although because he was speaking French it was impossible to ascertainthe accent exactly) brings us our cups of liquid encouragement. The taste in hot, strong. Frothy. My head clears as it scalds its way down my throat. Only in France could one get such a cup. I have not had one since Paris with Oscar five years previous.

We had hoped to make a holiday of it. No, correction. Watson hoped to make a holiday of it. The Louvre. The Eiffel Tower. Lord knows what other hovels he hoped to drag me to, pointing and 'oohing' like some slack-jawed tourist. A holiday is something I enjoy as much as having a tooth pulled. I fail to fathom how a supine body by the sea, sand stinging one's corneas, the brain turning to mush is supposed to be enjoyable. I prefer my mind active. To look always to the future and the promises that lie within it. Perhaps that is why I dread being here. It forces me to remember the past.

Watson sits across the unstable metal table looking perfectly contented. It was he who suggested this trip, but I know it cannot hold the same meaning for him as for me. He didn't really know the man. He sips the café au lait and a bit of foam sticks to his moustache. But I say nothing.

"Holmes."

I look up.

"We don't have to stay."

I'm staring at him now, thinking.

"I mean, after we go to the cemetery to pay our respects. I know you don't want to remain in Paris. We can go straight away back home. I don't mind in the least."

His eye catches mine. The Anglo culture has a taboo against looking one in the eye. We are taught that this is invasive and bombastic. But Watson allows me the liberty. I see no deception. I never do. And against my better judgment, I am reminded why I love him.

Bagneux Cemetery finds itself sealed off from the living by a large concrete wall, and is accessible only through a metal gate. Why the dead are required to be sequestered from the living is beyond me. Do they need privacy, prey?

A vulgar-looking row of evergreen shrubs lines the cement walkway. They are planted along a geometric plane of two by two. The grave sites themselves seem to be six by six by six, or thereabouts, a grid-like pattern or marble angels and crucifixes, each with weeping bouquets of white lilies or red roses placed in the most central area within the grid.

The artificiality of such a design gives me an uncharacteristic flash of anger. Death itself I have no issue with—I have certainly seen my share and understand the necessity of reciprocating ones place on Earth to another—but why as humans did we have to turn death into some sort of staged act? The length of grief was dependant on the degree of relation (a year for a spouse; six months for a sibling), the little social niceties required by one to spout (he is in a better place; he is no longer suffering; it was his time, etc), and then on a day that will inevitably rain, a pack of black-shrouded hypocrites (who would clearly wish to be anywhere else) gather to throw dead flowers at the corpse and hope for nothing more than to gather with the solicitor and see what the will has left them.

"We are a savage race, Watson," I mumble as we trudge down row after row, pass cross after cross.

He pats my forearm, but it is not a condescending 'there, there' sort of condolence. He is strictly understanding. I never imagined in my past or expect to in my future, have a one who knows me as this man does. He appreciates my moods and is familiar with my idiosyncrasies.

Yet still, he remains with me.

"It's a pitiful grave," the doctor says, and he is right. The grave is not a cross3, (horror of horrors—Ross had said he died a Catholic) and simply states his name and two dates. But I know this to be for the best. Imagine a gaudy display of sunflowers, peacock feathers and Greek statuary—perhaps this would be how Wilde imagined his shrine, but if he was ever to have forgiveness than unobtrusive, unadorned granite lost in a sea of freshly cut grass and manicured walk-ways is the best end to the means.

"Ross blamed himself, you know," I say, though with little context.

"For Wilde's death? How absurd."

"No, for introducing him to an introvert's lifestyle."

Watson grimaces and straightens his soldier's spine. He finds the word distasteful. I must admit I am not overly fond of it myself. "And who do you blame in your case?"

As if anyone would dare attach such a stigma to my name! "Why, you of course, my dear Watson."

"What!"

"Indeed I do. If not for you, I would have remained my old respectful self." I pause. "Well and Wilde, of course."

"Hmm…and I would not be a blot of shame on the registry of the Fifth Northumbrian Fusiliers."

Part of him is serious. He worries more than he should that I cannot protect him. His honour and reputation mean more to him than mine ever could to me. But inwardly he knows I would direct all my powers to eliminating anyone who is a threat to us. That is why he smiles as he says it.

I have never been personally affected by death. This is not to say that I have never experienced it, but because I have never had more than a distant affinity for anyone who has died. My mother was self-absorbed and disinterested in her children; my father was practically a stranger. My brother and I overcame similar brutalities but we may as well have lived on different planets. My companions as a youth were a series of varied quality governesses and nurses—hired and dismissed at the whim of my mother. When I was old enough to be shipped to school, I was universally labelled as an odd, queer-sort of outcast. Too intelligent, too indifferent to the lads of my own age and station.

In fact, I never really had any sort of companion until I was well into my teenage-years—and then at University. Reginald Musgrave and I shared some similarities (namely friendlessness and misanthropy) and in Victor Trevor I now realise I had discovered some pre-Watsonian qualifications. He was a sympathetic, helpful sort of fellow. But he lacked the intensity and loyalty to have ever been anything more than a slightly interesting acquaintance.

It is not as though I haven't realised Watson would some day depart this life. But like the proverbial elephant in the room, I never broached the subject until it nearly occurred. A chunk of lead an inch to the right and a spewing artery could have taken my only friend from me.

And then what? I would be alone, as Oscar was.

My hands, clad in tan kidskin, are empty. A queer notion, I admit, but staring at the two dates: October 16, 1854—November 30, 1900, causes me to realise how much of our empty lives come down to those two dates. On my own tomb some year in the future there would be two such dates. One, of the same year as Wilde, I would have no memory of. The second I couldn't say much for as it has yet to occur. Mercifully, it may be a quick death, but it was just as likely to not be. Mercifully, Watson may go after me. But he was just as likely not to.

_Perhaps I should have bought along some token_, I think. A bouquet of daisies, perhaps? Some painted china? The mere thought makes me smirk in disgust. To imagine Watson and I lugging some garish wreath of posies through Montrue4, ensnaring the stares of brightly coloured Frenchmen and their even more brightly-clad ladies. With a heavy sigh, I shove my hands into the pockets of my mackintosh. There is a burning need for tobacco. And a need for Wilde to still be alive. And a need to not need at all.

"I held my gun to him," says Watson suddenly. "Five years ago, I was prepared to do murder. And now I am mourning at his grave."

He is wearing a red-knitted scarf. I had forgotten that. I purchased it for a few shillings the first Christmas we shared at Baker Street. I suppose I had felt obliged to participate in yuletide festivities with my flatmate, but would not be put out about a present. What he had given me that year? Oh, yes, a plum cake bought at some second-rate bakery. I had passed it along to my Irregulars, always eager for any sort of nourishing cast-off. The doctor and I obviously knew each other not so well then.

Yet still, twenty years later, he is wearing this fraying piece of yarn that looks atrocious with his new overcoat. I consider for a moment buying him a new one. Something fine—silk or cambric—dove grey or perhaps cream. But I know I won't. We do not buy each other gifts, save for Christmas and our birthdays. The idea of purchasing Watson a…_love token _is as ludicrous as the scheme that forced he and I to no longer remain silent about each other. Or as grotesque as that scarf.

He presses his hand to my shoulder. I feel my throat clogging in the back and instantly I must fight for control, although truly I know not if it is for Wilde or for Watson. A thousand may fall at his side, ten thousand at his right side but death will not come nigh him.5 I will not allow it. I could not save one, but be damned if I will allow this man to suffer the same fate!

"Perhaps we should return to our room?" Watson speaks softly into my ear. I nod. We've taken a nice suite at a rather new hotel called Ritz6. I saw no reason not to travel as two gentlemen of means. _I'd rather not see another cheap, mould-infested Parisian hotel room, _he had told me before we left. I agree. Oscar deserved better. As does Watson. We will suffer no more than society says we must and even then we will do so in silk bed-linens and complimentary champagne.

"Come on, Holmes." His hand is still on my arm. He won't let go.

From my pocket, I pull out my silver cigarette case. I suppose I spoke something of a falsehood when I say we never gave each other an un-occasioned gift. For once when I thought I would certainly meet my death, I placed this item of remembrance on the side of a waterfall. Later, he would have my initials engraved into it out of preservation of my memory. For five years now it has rarely left my possession. I like to think of it as a reminder to never be overtly self-righteous. Mistaking Watson was the biggest mis-judgment of my life. One that shall never be repeated.

"Holmes," Watson says. His voice is comforting. "We should go. It's time for lunch."

I place the cigarette case against Wilde's marker, my initials facing away from the stone. This is the third time I have given it away—once out of comradeship, the next out of frustration.

"This is not _your _fault either." Watson frowns as if he has hit upon a realisation.

"Yes."

"It's _not_."

"I know."

This time, presumably the last, I give it out of acceptance. Perhaps gratitude as well. I take the doctor's arm and allow him to lead me toward the metal gate.

I was right, of course.

1 The amount of product obtained in a chemical reaction. Another words, the result of an experiment.

2 As in from Birmingham

3 Should be noted that Wilde was buried in this cemetery before being moved to the much more familiar grave in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery in 1909.

4 The district of Paris where this cemetery is.

5 A somewhat accurate rephrasing of the 91st Psalm.

6 The Ritz Paris is now generally considered _the _luxury hotel, but it had only been open about 4 years at this point.


End file.
